


Eye of the Storm

by risemidnighthands



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5487749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risemidnighthands/pseuds/risemidnighthands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chester Bennington is driving around aimlessly one night to escape going home to his wife when he enters a bar on the wrong side of town , and he meets Mike Shinoda. His infatuation with wanting to join his group begins despite the rumors that tell him they are dangerous and not to be fraternized with. He ignores everyone who tells him to stay away, and he is given one chance to be accepted into their ranks. As he learns more about them, he discovers not all of the horrible tales surrounding them seem to be true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is not the end

**Author's Note:**

> This story is already up on my LPFiction profile, but I'm starting it here.

He turned the wheel in his car, going down yet another unfamiliar street. He hadn’t been in the city long, and in all honesty, he had not yet decided what he thought of it. For one thing, he did not appreciate the traffic. Not that he was in a hurry to get anywhere---he in fact, had no destination---but sitting behind lines of cars was not the most enjoyable activity.

It was late, and if only he weren’t in the middle of Los Angeles, it would be dark as hell and vacant. However, he was in the city of angels which meant there were street lamps and lit-up shops illuminating the streets, and still many people bustling about at close-to-midnight.

Turning the dial for the heater, he was yet again reminded of how crappy his car was when not even a bit of warmth out of the vents. It may have been southern California, but it was still closing in on winter, and the poor man felt the chilly air settling in his old vehicle.

After all, he was from Arizona; he was used to the heat, and a tad wimpy when it came to the cold. His life-long dream was to be in a band, and at twenty-seven he still hadn’t given up on it. Back in Tempe, he worked at a fast food restaurant and co-owned a tattoo shop with his high school friend. It did well, and he was able to support himself and his wife, but he still didn’t want to let go of music. So when they talked about opening a shop in LA, he immediately offered to go start it up. He knew that if he wanted a chance to be in a band, that was the place to be. Like many souls, with a heart full of hopes and dreams, he got a one-way ticket to the city of angels.

Nothing really changed between Arizona and California. Now he lived in a decent to poor apartment with his wife, and worked at a drugstore to pay the rent. The space in which Club Tattoo was going to be still had to be renovated, and until then, he just had to work on getting employees, interviewing tattoo artists and ordering the supplies they would need. Still, despite the fact he would sing his heart out and try harder than anyone, nothing was going well for him in the music department. When he had time to even think about trying to push a career, all he could find were open mic nights at small clubs where hardly anyone cared.

He had just come from one where the crowd was uninterested and too drunk to even pay attention. Going home wasn’t his first choice, so he just drove. He drove for hours, wasting gas and exploring the city that was his new home. He didn’t want to go sit in his apartment all night and think about his failures. He didn’t want to be alone, but he also didn’t want to go home where his wife would complain and curse him for whatever it was he did or didn’t do. Things between them were deteriorating since before the move. She was no longer satisfied with him and made it known that he didn’t live up to her standards. Somewhere along the way, they fell out of love, but neither of them had decided to end the relationship.

Rubbing his hands for warmth, he pulled out of the central part of the city and headed towards the outskirts of town. Unintentionally he turned into an area lit up only by dim streetlights and blinking fluorescent signs in smoky windows. Shops and buildings looked less pristine and sparkling, more dirty and run-down. Shadowy figures were hunched in dark alleyways, and anyone on the sidewalk looked scrawny and underfed or like an ex-convict. He hardly noticed the dank atmosphere and dark streets hiding people that would scare anyone normal, as he parked the car along the curb, only thinking about going indoors somewhere warm. There was a bar just down the way that looked perfect.

The man stepped out onto the wet pavement and into the cold, damp air. He locked his car, but didn’t even think that it might be an area where a simple lock wouldn’t make a difference to someone who wanted something from it. His black boots clicked on the concrete as he walked towards his new destination. The skinny grey jeans he wore hardly helped with the cool breeze, and he pulled his black cloth jacket tighter over his white tee shirt, popping the collar up around his neck.

Upon reaching the door, he paused to glance up at the old, beaten-up, wood sign hanging above his head: “ **The Phoenix** ” it read, images of a fiery bird on either side. He could hear music faintly beating inside, and although it was made of glass and acted like a long window, he couldn’t hardly see anything past the door. With his sleeves stretched up over the heel of his palm to keep out the frozen air, he reached out to pull open the door and step in. Immediately his face was greeted with a rush of warmth from inside, and his nose was flooded with the scent of smoke and alcohol. The room wasn’t large, but it also didn’t feel too small either. There were booths by the walls, and tables scattered around the middle of the floor. To his left, he could see a small stage. On it was a lone microphone stand, and a stool. Towards the edge sat an old black grand piano, but even from across the room, he could tell it was gorgeous. To his right were a couple of pool tables, and a dark hallway.

The space was packed with bodies, yet it didn’t feel too crowded. For the most part, the men were large and muscular, looking hardened and physically capable. The women were thin, curvy, and wearing little. Everyone was moving; whether they were dancing on the floor, or laughing with friends, nothing was still.

Slowly, he weaved his way to the bar at the back of the room. The more people he saw, the more he realized he didn’t fit in with the broad shouldered men that filled the room. A woman in tight black pants, heels, and a revealing tank top walked by him carrying a round platter with glasses on each hand. She smirked with a raised eyebrow as she maneuvered by him. A table of women in skin tight jeans and low cut blouses pointed and whispered as he passed. He began to wonder if entering was a mistake, but he didn’t want to go back outside and was craving a drink to settle his mind.

Reaching a bar stool with no one on either side, he slowly sat down and tried to relax. A drink would help---and did, the glass of Jack disappearing almost as fast as the bartender poured it. On his third, he was beginning to feel the warmth trickling through his veins and easing his nerves. Turning to his right on the stool, he opened his mouth, attempting to engage the man a few seats away in conversation. “Hey! What brings you here?”

The man wore jeans and a black tee shirt that revealed his rippling biceps. His brown hair hung down the sides of his face to his neck, and dark tattoos stretched across his arms and hands. He sneered at the singer speaking to him before standing and walking away, dissolving into the people and smoke.

“How interesting. Nice talking to you,” he said with disdain, raising his glass to the place the other man was a second earlier before letting the liquid shoot down his throat. People were really polite here, apparently. He didn’t speak to anyone else, and no one tried to talk to him. Some many drinks later he was frustrated and unhappy. He craved human interaction, he knew hardly anyone in this damn city. Clearly this bar was not the place to go to make friends although everyone else there happily chatted and laughed with everyone. Why did he bother coming in?

Thoughts of returning to Arizona were coursing through his mind when a large body came crashing into him. He swore as his arm jumped and his glass tipped over on the counter. He gave a sheepish expression at the bartender glaring at him. About to reach over and clean it up, he was interrupted by the man who had stumbled into him. “What the fuck? Watch where you’re going!”

“Excuse me?” he was about to say exasperatedly and indignant since he had done nothing, but the words died on his tongue as he turned to find himself facing a monstrously huge man. His own form grew even smaller as he shrunk in on himself. A bar fight wasn’t on the top of his priorities, and let’s face it, this guy had about half a foot and quite a few pounds on him. There was no way he’d win with his scrawny arms. He definitely shouldn’t have come in.

He was racking his brain for something that would save him from getting beaten to a pulp by the massive figure closing in on him, when a deep, sure voice sounded behind his left side. “Travis, lay off.”

The giant male before him turned his glare to the person past him, but the small man didn’t dare move a muscle. “This isn’t your fight, Shinoda. Stay out of it,” he growled.

“You don’t want to make it mine,” came the calm voice with a hint of warning. “You’re just picking on this puny man to boost your self-esteem, but really he’s so much smaller than you, that would prove nothing. You’re all braun and no brain. Leave it,” he commanded.

Huffing, the large man turned and walked away with his equally massive friends, but not before sending one last glare to the musician cowering into his stool. Once the danger was far enough away, he turned to his left to find out who the one responsible for saving his ass was.

His gaze was met with smoke before it cleared to reveal a man sitting a few stools away, and briefly he wondered if he was in a bad movie, before surprise took over. The voice that got him out of a beating belonged to a man taller than himself, but not nearly as big as everyone else seemed to be---an almost average build. He had black hair, short and styled up on his head, and well-kept facial hair covered his jaw and upper lip. A black leather jacket covered his arms and torso, with black jeans running down to a pair of dark sneakers. Everything black. In between his long index and middle fingers on his right hand was a cigarette, and an almost empty glass was on the bar in front of him. His elbows rested on the edge of the counter, the arm not holding the cigarette flat on the surface.

The smaller man’s thin frame stood out among the stocky bodies and bulky men, and the only thing he had in common with them was a multitude of tattoos across his skin. However, he, himself looked more like the crowd around the building than this one lazily smoking his cigarette. Yet the dark-haired man in front of him had an air about him that said he belonged there. His posture was comfortable, although slightly bored, and none of the noises or people seemed to faze him. The way he spoke to the other man whispered unspoken authority, and although he was many sizes smaller, he was listened to.

“Thanks for helping me back there,” the musician said softly, still watching the man with interest.

A chuckle responded to his words of gratitude, “You don’t belong here.” His eyes were not met as the dark man just gazed at the cigarette dangling between his fingers.

He was intrigued by this stranger, and stood from his stool to sit down next to the man with the jet black hair. The black-cloaked man turned slightly to look down and to his right at the skinny man settling himself next to him. His lip curled slightly at the proximity of their bodies.

Upon closer inspection, the musician decided that this guy must be at least part Asian, and what had the monster said? Shinoda? Definitely Japanese or something.

His hands were steady as he brought the cigarette to his lips, breathing in before lowering his arm again and blowing the smoke out with ease, not caring if the small human next to him was bothered. The demeanor of the Asian darkness was superior as if he was above all others, not arrogant and self-important, but because it seemed he really _was_. Who was he?

“Why not?” he asked to the Asian’s last statement. “What makes you belong here any more than I do?”

The taller man laughed, “Your questions are almost too ridiculous and ignorant to entertain with a response, but since you’re new to this place and you seem innocent, I’ll humor you.” Finally, he turned his head to stare the now very unsure man in the eyes. The musician was trapped in the harsh depths of two dark brown eyes demanding attention and respect. “You are not only new to this town, but a virgin to this area, this bar, and others of the like. You’re less than half the size of most of the men here, and from the looks of it, couldn’t hold a fight with even most of the women let alone anyone else. You may not have money, but I can tell you didn’t grow up on the brutal streets of LA like the people here. You’ve sat drinking alone here for an hour and managed to get laughed at and almost pulverized. Your lack of knowledge could get you a broken nose in half a second in a place like this, so clearly your common sense is suffering as well. You couldn’t get Avery to even talk to you, you made Travis almost beat you to a pulp, yet you still come closer to sit next to a man you know nothing about. You don’t belong here, and you have no business talking to me. You’ve had your drinks, it’s time you go home, but I’d advise you to do yourself a favor, and not drive in your condition,” he finished with a smirk and turned back to his smoke.

The thin man looked down feeling like he had been punched in the chest. He knew that he didn’t fit in, but he was hurt by the Asian’s harsh tone and uncaring disposition after he had saved him earlier. “I-I’m done, I think I’ll get going,” he stuttered, getting ready to pay. However, digging in his pockets he found an empty wallet and not even a penny of cash. Terrified, he looked up into the eyes of the angry bartender. The man was as strong and broad-shouldered as the average man in the room, and his green eyes were unforgiving. A sleeveless black shirt, and light denim vest revealed tattoos painted on his muscled arms, and he was glaring at the poor musician. The small man had a feeling he was about to get ripped yet another slew of insults when again, the deep, smooth voice to his left stopped it.

“I got it, Dave,” the Asian slapped a few bills on the counter for both their drinks. He then stood, adjusting his jacket at the movement. The bartender nodded and accepted, tapping a finger on the bar at the thinner male. “Lucky,” he smirked before turning away.

The singer was about to thank him again, when the man called out a name before downing the last of his drink. By some miracle, a tall man heard him and came over immediately, listening intently to the dark-haired man’s instructions. “Take this boy home,” were the last words from his lips as he left, bidding goodbye to no one.

He walked straight to the exit, without a care that the floor was still crowded with bodies. It parted like the red sea to let him through without trouble. His strides were long, but not rushed, and he did not look to anyone as he pushed out the door, pulling his collar up in the back.

“Hey,” a voice broke into the musician’s whirling mind. “Name’s Rob.” He looked at the tall man holding his hand out. He was even taller than the Shinoda character, and less obviously capable of beating him up than most of the men in the building. Short brown hair covered his head, and he had a small trimmed beard. Although large, he was still less intimidating than some of the others he met that night.

“Chester,” he shook the hand offered to him. “Chester Bennington.”

He was still staring at the door. He watched the Asian man through the window as he took one last smoke before flicking the butt into the cold air and disappearing into the night. He was gone before the light of the cigarette sizzled out on the damp sidewalk.

The tall man followed Chester’s gaze out the door and flatly said “Don’t get yourself involved with Mike Shinoda.”


	2. All caught up

“Well, Chester Bennington, did you walk?”

“No, I drove,” Chester mumbled, “but I can get home by myself.”

“Negative,” the man named Rob shook his head. “I was asked to take you home.”

Too tired (and drunk) to argue, the singer finally nodded. He was also still very curious as to who the Asian man was and why everyone seemed to listen to him without question, and he wanted to ask Rob. He began to make his way to the door, getting shoved and run into with every step among the waves of people. A few times he was met with an angry glare and a ready fist, both of which were put to rest at the sight of the brunette with him. The crowd did not part for him as it had for the Mike Shinoda. However, intentions to attack ceased when they looked past the musician, the punch and insults falling instead to a settling nod at the taller man.

Together they made their way outside, the chilly air enveloping them, but the thin man hardly felt it as the alcohol had dulled his senses. The considerably soberer man accompanying him seemed immune to it as well, not a single shiver racking his body clothed in just a tee shirt and jeans. Chester examined his new acquaintance as he led him back down the street, the night somehow darker than when he arrived.

Rob was tall, and clearly very fit, defined muscles visible in the way his shirt fell over his torso. Yet, he was not the mammoth of a man that Travis and many others at the bar had been. His eyes were softer, and his tone lighter when he spoke to the smaller man. Still, no one prepared to engage in even an argument, let alone a fist fight with him. The singer recalled the power of the Asian man he had met, commanding people much large than he; it seemed his brown-haired friend shared some of his authority. Although he came across nice enough, Chester was wary, also remembering the way Shinoda had saved him and then turned on him with scathing comments. Who were these men?

Inner debates on the nature and characters of those he had met occupied his tired mind as the two walked silently to where he parked his car. As they neared the vehicle, a flickering street lamp revealed to him why he shouldn't have abandoned it there. The automobile sat on cinderblocks, its wheels gone from the axles, and the lack of doors caused the breeze to rustle the bits of trash littering the dirty floor. Somehow shocked, he rushed to the depressed Honda, scrambling around the inside to fully review the damage.

"This your car?" Rob questioned, holding a stance with his legs shoulder-width apart and his arms across his chest. He stood in the street, surveying the demolished vehicle and the smaller man now sitting in the ripped driver seat with his head hung. The sad singer nodded slowly, kicking the floor with his boots. "Well, it's not gonna run like this. Come on, I'll drive you home in my car," the taller said matter-of-factly.

Chester looked up with a bewildered glare, still trying to wrap his head around the fact his car had practically been scrapped for its shitty parts, but Rob had apparently already moved on.

"You're not getting anywhere in this, whoever took it apart is long gone, and I need to take you home. Let's go," his tone turned impatient. The singer shook his head, but stepped out of his broken car, getting ready to follow the man back.

How did he get here? It had been a normal night of work then playing a small show to a disinterested audience. His steps halted as he remembered, jogging back towards the trunk and calling out. "Hold on."

The tall brunette watched curiously as the thin male shoved a key in the only part of the vehicle that seemed intact, the back popping open. The musician reached in to pull out a long black bag. Once he had fully removed it, Rob recognized it as a guitar case.

With one last shake of his head, Chester slammed the trunk closed and slung the guitar over his back, turning again to follow the taller man. His steps were large compared to his body size, but he still had to walk quickly to keep up with the confident strides of his companion. He studied the man’s posture, and put it against his own. Rob stood straight and tall, not a single hunch in his back or shoulders. His own figure, however, was bent and doubtful. He threw his shoulders back and raised his chin in an attempt to match the taller man's stature, but didn’t hold the certainty and courage as the other did.

Thinking again back to the bar, the singer mentally conjured up the exchange between himself and the Asian there. He wished he could hold that level of dauntlessness, but then again, how could he, being treated as someone so young and incompetent.

“He called me a boy,” he pouted as they walked.

“You are but a boy.”

“I am twenty-seven, I am a man.”

“Ah, and I am twenty-four, almost twenty-five. But I have spent all my years here, whereas you haven’t spent even a night in this area. You are a boy---a child compared to us in that regard.”

These people confused Chester, but at the same time he was fascinated. He wanted to know more---he wanted to understand them. The man called Mike Shinoda especially interested him. Even though this Rob person had told him not to get involved, he was entirely too hooked on the man before he had even said it.

By then they had gotten back to the door of the bar, passing it just as a tall, thin man strolled out. The musician peered at him with interest; although substantially taller than himself, this guy was much more similar in build. Muscles didn't strain against his light grey zip-up hoodie, and he wore a lighthearted smile. Short, but unmistakably curly, brown hair grew on his head, and his friendly face featured nicely controlled facial hair. His hands were buried in the pockets of jeans as he paused outside, noticing the two of them.

"Bourdon," he nodded to the tallest one.

Rob stopped their walk in front of curly-haired guy, nodding back and greeting him with, "Delson."

The "Delson" one ignored the singer, continuing his oh-so-important conversation with the brunette. So much for his friendly face.

"Coming to the house?" came the question.

"I have to take him home," he said, jerking his thumb towards the musician. "Mike's request."

"Him?" For the first time, Delson looked at the smaller man, his eyes traveling down and back up again. Chester shrunk back and furrowed his brows, feeling judged and degraded; he pulled the strap of his guitar bag higher onto his shoulder. His suspicions of the other man's thoughts confirmed by his next words. "I wonder why."

"Is there a plan tonight?" The singer was glad when the talk moved away from him.

"He said he was going for a walk in the neighborhood. I'm meeting him in the alley soon," the thinner man replied while pulling out his cell phone and checking the screen. "Then we're going to the house."

"Let me know if anything comes up," Rob said as he raised a hand to put on the shoulder of the third person, excluded from their exchange. With that, he gently pushed him forward and they began to make their way by again. He only turned briefly when his friend called out.

"Come by when you're finished with the boy."

He nodded his head, but kept walking towards the corner of the building where he turned upon a small parking lot. The ground was gravelly, and crunched under Chester's boots as they walked to the one of the nicest cars in the lot. Most were old and rundown, some had broken windows and missing parts, and the singer questioned their ability to run. Three vehicles, however looked clean, devoid of vandalism, and relatively new. One was a dark blue, large pickup truck. It was parked beside a shiny red Camaro whose other side featured a gorgeous black Mercedes sedan.

Rob Bourdon walked towards the red Chevy sports car, and pulled his keys to unlock it. Before sliding into the driver side, he turned to briskly say, "C’mon. Let's go," to the thin man looking in awe.

The singer opened the door on the passenger side slowly, but didn't get in immediately. He looked around the seedy area, and then glanced at the camaro and the two cars flanking it. By then, he had realized what kinds of people roamed that area and anything valuable left out, was going to get taken. Yet, these three vehicles were untouched. He bent down to look at the other man, his arms supported on the roof and the door. "My car was ripped apart, some of the ones here hardly look any better, so why not these?" he gestured to the three shining vehicles.

A smirk played at the corner of the tall man's mouth, and he said, "People know what they shouldn't touch." Then a straight expression took over his face as he demanded, "Get in."

Carefully tossing his instrument in the backseat area, he slid inside, marveling at the slick interior, and stroking the leather seat with his palm. He had hardly closed the door and reached to tug at the seat belt to pull over himself when the driver started the engine and began to quickly and smoothly pull out of the space. The next second, they were out of the lot and into the streets, leaving Chester no more time to speculate on the spotless cars.

Much to his embarrassment, he had no clue how exactly to even get to his apartment from where they were when he was asked, "where to?" His bumbling reply prompted the tall man to reach over quickly into the passenger's pants pocket and remove his wallet, all the while steadily speeding down the street, his gaze on the road never faltering. It was so fast and clean, the singer hardly even noticed, until Rob was pulling his license and checking the address. Great, these people were pickpockets, too. When the brunette was finished, he simply tossed to wallet back into the lap of the smaller man, turning the wheel to hurtle down another street of his choosing.

What was it about these men that made everyone else listen and obey? The musician had a feeling it was more to do with Mike Shinoda than his friends. He was the top of something, but what?---he wasn’t sure. Curious to no end, he finally spoke up.

“Who...who are you guys?”

The taller man snickered. “People,” he replied simply. “Men who have grown up in this town.”

“Why do people listen to you?”

“Because I have proved my worth. I’ve lived this my whole life.”

“And Mike?” he inquired.

“No one touches Mike Shinoda,” Rob stated.

“But...why?”

“You don’t know much about these streets, do you? No, you don’t,” he said without waiting for an answer. “If you did, you would know not to come to this side of town and you would know who Mike Shinoda is.”

“Who is he, though?”

“To be aligned with him is to be respected and hold power. To befriend him is to have everything you ever dreamed. To do so you must be up to his standards, and to accomplish the latter, you must gain his trust. If you do, he will be forever loyal, and you will never be in need of anything. If you are against him, you won’t last long,” was all the explanation he gave as he drove down dark roads looking relaxed and at ease.

“Is it difficult?” the singer asked curiously.

“Oh, you are so ignorant. So infantile. Enough with your questions. This is your address, is it not?”

Chester looked around, finally realizing they were parked in front of his building. “It is,” he said, but made no move to get out. He didn’t want to end the night quite yet. He thought about the next day, and hesitantly questioned, “h-how am I supposed to get to work tomorrow?”

“That’s not my problem,” was the brunette’s exasperated response.

“But…” the thinner man looked so small and troubled, that Rob relented.

“Fine. I’ll take care of it. When do you need to leave?”

“My shift is at twelve pm, so I have to leave around eleven thirty or so.”

“Done. You should get some sleep now. It’s late.”

“How will---” he tried to ask, but was interrupted by clipped words and the demand to exit.

“Don’t worry about it. Go.”

After lifting his guitar from the backseat and stepping out, he whispered his thanks, and headed toward the door. The shiny red Camaro was already flying around the corner and out of his sight as he dug in his pockets for the key. It was then that for the first time that night that he remembered his phone. He pulled it out along with the keys, checking his notifications as he opened the door. He had six, all from his wife. Text messages begging where he was and voicemails yelling at him to come home lasted him the walk up the stairs to his apartment. The last was received at 12:58 am: “Chester, if you’re not back here in ten minutes don’t bother coming to bed.”

He looked at the time, and the clock read a quarter to two in the morning. Clearly he was spending the night alone on the couch. Quietly he entered the bathroom from the door by the kitchen, and through the second entrance, he could see into the bedroom he and his wife shared. Various clothing littered the floor, and he saw his pillow had been flung across the room---along with his alarm clock and a framed picture of them from back in Arizona---presumably by his angry wife. He didn’t dare enter the room; finishing his business, he took to staring in the mirror with his arms on the edge of the sink. The reflection was dark---he hadn’t bothered turning on the light---but it didn’t matter; he wasn’t really looking. The singer was thinking about the different people he had met.

He tried to imagine what Mike Shinoda was doing at that moment. It was hard to picture the dark Asian in simplicities like brushing his teeth and sleeping on the couch. The man was on an entirely different level than the small musician, and he couldn’t help fantasizing life with him. From what Rob had said, it seemed glorious, so much better than this life he was living.

As he slid under a blanket on the couch, stripped down to his boxers and tee shirt, he couldn’t take his mind off Mike Shinoda. Who was he? The house? What was his life? Whatever it was, he was sure it didn’t include a bitter, resentful wife forcing him to sleep on the couch as they lived in a one-bedroom apartment. He pondered the excitement he was involved in, parties or adventures much more enjoyable than his own sorry existence.

The singer wasn’t wrong. Mike Shinoda was indeed up still. He had just said his goodnight to his current “friend”, her boyfriend blissfully unaware of the Asian taking her in the streets behind the club where he worked. Mike had a tendency to involve himself with women already spoken for. Causing turmoil and getting off was the most fun he got to have at night.

As Chester Bennington drifted to sleep on the couch, Mike Shinoda was strolling through an alley to meet a friend. Halfway down the dark concrete corridor, a figure leaned against the side of the building, his ankles crossed and his hands deep in the pockets of his worn jeans. The hood of his grey sweatshirt was up, but below the shadow of it, the half-Japanese man could see a smirk on his friend’s lips.

“Quit your grinning, Delson; it’s too late for smiling,” he teased, despite the fact the corners of his own mouth were quirked up.

“Ah, c’mon Shinoda, it’s only two in the morning,” the thinner man laughed. "How was Joscelynn?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

"Jo was fantastic, I think I might keep her a while."

His friend shook his head at his antics, the men greeting in a handshake and clap on the back.

"Ever think of maybe actually settling down?" the brunette questioned.

"Nope. This way is better. All fun and no need for trust and heartbreak."

His curly-haired companion shook his head yet again and changed the subject. “So Mike, what is the plan?” he asked.

“House. Relax. Hang out,” the Asian responded as they continued making their way down the alley. Their pace was leisured and unrushed, and although it was dark, sketchy, and known for stabbings, there was no fear in either of them.

“Stressful day?” Delson turned his head to look at his friend staring forward. He knew that the raven-haired man rarely spent his free time doing nothing, preferring to work or go out even at late hours of the night.

“Oh Brad,” he chuckled. “I can’t even tell you what this week has been like, and with the holidays rapidly approaching; it’s a mess.”

“You can handle it. Don’t worry.”

“I know. There’s just so much to be done when you’re essentially three different people,” the Asian murmured.

“I know. For tonight you can just be Mike, my best friend.”

Mike Shinoda smiled, knowing he could enjoy the time spent with his best friend without worry and expectations.

 


	3. All you need

The black Mercedes that Chester had seen belonged to Mike Shinoda, and he along with his curly-haired friend drove it out of the city and towards his magnificent estate. The Asian let his friend take the wheel so he could sit back on the ride over. Work was tearing at his sanity and stress ate at his nerves.

For a while, they sat without talking, but halfway through the trip, Brad decided to ask something he’d been curious about since he ran into Rob.

“Who was the boy from the bar?”

“What boy?” Mike had his head back on the headrest, and his eyes were shut peacefully. He hardly moved to reply.

“The one you asked Rob to take home. I saw them when I left,” the thinner man elaborated, steadily driving along the freeway.

“Oh, I don’t know. He was just some kid exploring where he doesn’t belong,” the Asian shrugged off.

“But why are you helping him?” his friend pressed for his reasoning.

“I’m not. I simply let him get out alive, and gave him a way to get home,” the tall, dark man was indignant, not sure himself what prompted him to give the man even a scrap of his attention.

“Why?” Brad persisted.

The dark-haired male finally opened his eyes to look at his friend next to him, pulling his head from its comfortable position resting back. “Because he looked so small and helpless.”

“Ah Shinoda, are you getting soft?” he was teased. The thinner man wore a smirk that from anyone else would be met with a hard fist.

“Shut _up_ , Delson. I’m not heartless,” he said defensively. “He’s just innocent like we were once,” the half-Japanese man countered.

“Except that when we were that ‘innocent’ we were still only kids,” his friend pointed out snidely.

“You know, whatever,” the Asian waved him away. “We were there at one point.”

“You like him,” his friend taunted him some more, knowing that he was hardly capable of being nice, let alone liking anyone.

“He means nothing to me,” Mike deadpanned, forcing his companion to drop the subject.

After some silence, Brad went for another sensitive topic. He knew his friend was stubborn, but he couldn’t help wanting the man to truly be happy, not just play around. Mike Shinoda had everything he had ever wanted, but there was something missing that he didn’t even know he needed. There was a void in the man’s life of which he was unaware, and to evade recognizing it, he screwed around.

“Mike, seriously, do you ever think of maybe having an actual relationship?” the brunette asked earnestly.

“I can’t afford to put my trust out there. I saw what happened to Rob. He got destroyed because he gave his heart to a woman,” was the Asian’s immediate response.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Brad tried, but his friend just looked at him incredulously so he switched tactics. “What about me and Elisa? We’re doing well,” he said proudly of himself and his girlfriend.

“Where are you going though? It can still turn terribly wrong. Remember Joe and Karen? They were fine, too. Then all of a sudden they went through a nasty divorce,” Mike reminded him.

“Dave and Linsey are happily married,” the curly-haired man used their other friends as an example, but his best friend wouldn’t have it.

“Anything can happen. It is far safer to not get involved with feelings and love,” the Asian was adamant.

They had arrived at the massive property that was Mike Shinoda’s house, and Brad had parked in the driveway. Before exiting he went back to their conversation, still determined to make his friend realize that he needed love in his life.

“You can’t just look at broken relationships, and automatically assume that every one ends that way.”

“I see people’s failures and know what they did wrong so that I do not make the same mistake. That is exactly what I should do,” the Asian reached into his pocket to draw out a pack of cigarettes, pulling out two before shoving them back inside his jeans.

His friend took the stick offered to him, watching Mike light his own before tossing him the lighter. Flicking on the flame and staring at it, he said, “well, don’t forget the fundamental problem of Rob and Vanessa’s relationship.”

The half-Japanese man took back the silver lighter and opened his door. With the cigarette dangling from his lips, the glowing red ends the only light in the car, he gave his final word before getting out and shutting the door firmly. “It doesn’t change anything for me.”

As he took a drag on his cigarette, Brad tiredly opened the car door, pulling the keys from the ignition. He slid out of the vehicle to follow his friend up to the house washed in the darkness of the night. Upon entering, he flicked on the front hall light, the other man already continuing forward despite the fact it was pitch black a second before. To his left was a set of hooks, various keys dangling from them, and he placed the car keys in their place on the vacant spot. As they entered further into the house, there was a clicking sound making its way around the hard floors up to them until a black dog appeared, trotting to his master’s side. He followed the Asian closely as he walked to the kitchen, one hand stroking the ebony fur of the dog’s head.

As Mike pulled out a bag of kibble, his black and cream Shiba Inu came scampering into the room, wagging her tail at the prospect of food. The larger black Kai Ken watched him with eager eyes. He was scooping out cups into the dog bowls on the ground when they all heard the front door open and shut, Rob’s voice carrying down the hall.

“Mike? Brad? I’m here,” he announced his presence.

The curly-haired man poked his head around the doorway and called out, “kitchen.”

Their tall brunette friend stepped through the familiar house until he reached the tiled room. By the time he got there, the Asian had put away the food, his dogs happily crunching on their middle of the night dinner.

“How was it?” he asked, opening the fridge and pulling out a cold bottle. “Beer?” he asked pointlessly. He tossed one to Brad, and took one himself, but the taller male shook his head as he always did to the question.

“It was fine,” he stood in the entrance, twirling his keys in his hand. “The dumbass left his car on the street and it got a little demolished. I drove him home in my car, and somehow ended up telling him I would get him to his job tomorrow,” the brunette shook his head, annoyed that it was something he would have to worry about come morning.

“What, like you offered him a ride?” Mike asked. He was leaning against the counter next to the refrigerator, occasionally taking a drag on his cigarette, the open beer by his side. His ankles were crossed, and his arms over his chest. Even relaxed in his own home he looked intimidating.

“Well, technically I said I’d ‘take care of it’, but unless I can magically fix up his car or something, that’s my only option,” the tall man scrunched his face unhappily and ran a hand over it into his hair.

Brad was standing in the corner near the dogs during the whole exchange. His cigarette between his fingers, and beer in hand, his gaze flickered between his two friends. He was quiet, observing the way they spoke and trying to figure out why this guy they were fussing over mattered at all.

“When does he need to go?” the older man asked thoughtfully.

“He said like eleven-thirty.” The dogs had finished their food, and the smaller had wandered over to Rob, sniffing at his shoes. He kneeled down to pet her, and she wagged her tail happily.

“I can take care of it,” the Asian stated. He was already pulling out his phone, and dialing a number. “I know someone.”

His friends gaped at him across the room. The phone to his ear, he pushed off the counter, and stepped out the doorway. They heard him say, "hey Mags, I know it’s late, but do you think you could do me a favor?” before the phone call faded into another room.

The younger of the two men left in the kitchen was still on the floor with one of the dogs; the other animal was standing facing out the door, his ears pricked towards Mike’s voice. The curly-haired male reached out to stroke his fur, but the black dog hardly acknowledged him.

“Who _is_ this kid?” Brad asked incredulously. “That man,” he pointed out the door, “is _never_ that nice to complete strangers. Why does he continue helping this guy?”

“I don’t know,” the taller man replied, just as dumbstruck. “His name is Chester Bennington, he's twenty-seven, and he's kind of an idiot. That’s all I know, and I’m pretty sure that Mike knows even less.”

It was quiet as the men mulled over it in their brains. They had known Mike Shinoda for years---since they were children---and never had he cared or done that much to help someone he had just met. Soon, they heard heavy footsteps again, and the half-Japanese man returned, slipping his phone into his pocket and walking over to grab his beer. “Done,” he said before leaving the room again. “Karasu,” he called, and the black dog ran out from under the thinner man’s palm, going straight for the voice of his master.

Sighing, Brad gave a helping hand to Rob to get up and they followed the raven-colored dog out into the den.

By the time they entered, their Asian friend was already stretched back on his expensive couch, kicking off his sneakers to have them fall to the dark wooden floor. He lay with his back in the corner, one leg along the cushions while his other foot rested flat on the floor. With a pat on his lap he called his dog up to him, the black Kai immediately hopping gracefully up and lying down, a head rested on his master's thigh.

Rob walked over to the recliner adjacent to Mike and made himself comfortable before pulling out his phone, while Brad scooped up the smaller dog that had followed them in and plopped her onto his lap as he sat across from the taller brunette.

"Rob Bourdon, relax!" the Asian teasingly commanded the man staring at his device and checking emails.

The curly-haired man on the other side let out a loud laugh, startling the small dog curled up on his lap. He rubbed her ears soothingly as the other man sneered, "Being told to relax by Mr. Shinoda himself! That is priceless." Continuing to tap away with his thumbs, the youngest said, "There are things to be done. You know that as well as I do," hardly glancing over the top at his friend.

"Yes, but not at near three in the morning. No business tonight, dear friend." Dark chocolate eyes met lighter brown ones as Mike stared at the brunette with an undeniable advisement, bringing his cigarette to his lips and slowly breathing in the smoke before blowing it out and letting his arm fall across the back of the couch, careful to keep the fiery end away from the soft leather.

"Fine," Rob surrendered, shutting off the screen and placing the device on the table between them where his Japanese friend snatched it up and slid it into the back pocket of his own jeans. "But I'm going to the office in the morning and you can't stop me," the tall brunette shook his head.

The third man in the room finally spoke again, smirking with the cigarette between his fingers and the dog under his other palm. "I know your boss is kinda an asshole," he said, prompting his best friend to throw a coaster at him. "But don't you think you could sleep in and go to work later?" he dodged the projectile heading straight for his shoulder. It rattled to resting position after colliding with the wood of the floor much to the disappointment of the dark-haired man who threw it.

Mike rolled his eyes. "Careful now, he's your boss, too," he jeered, smoke blowing out his nostrils.

The youngest of the three men looked to the ceiling in exasperation with his bickering and childish friends. Leaning back in the recliner, he broke through their teasing, "Calm down guys; I'm going to bed in no later than an hour," he glanced at his watch, "so let's enjoy the time before then."

"I am enjoying myself," the Asian chuckled, putting out the last of his cigarette in the ashtray on the table by his side and picking up his open beer. He pointed the bottle to his friend, "What about you, Brad? Enjoying yourself?"

"Of course," the curly-haired man said with a smile as he watched his best friend calmly take a drink. He was at ease, a rarity that would make him happy any day. His attention turned to the dog on the couch, almost drifting to sleep in contentment with the slow, comforting strokes to his head. "He is a true Japanese spitz," the thinner man nodded at the black animal. "He doesn't like or pay attention to anyone, yet here he is, cuddling with you."

"Takes after his master, doesn't he?" Rob said looking at the dog. "Loyal, but cautious to trust. Not the friendliest, but a fantastic one if he is," his voice dropping to a quiet level.

Mike, too, looked at his Kai. "Yes, Karasu's my perfect dog. Huh, boy? Yes, you are." He pet the dark fur, keen eyes looking up to meet his human ones.

As if she knew what her owner was saying, the Shiba Inu raised her head, ears pricked towards the exchange between man and dog. "Don't worry, Hatsu," Brad scratched her head, leaning over to speak ridiculously in her ear. "You're a good girl, too. You're even better because you're nice to others."

"Oh, Hatsu knows she's my girl, my first and only love," the Asian gazed at his other dog sitting with his best friend---the human best friend.

The next forty-five minutes or so the men chatted and drank, relishing in this time they got to themselves without worries, even if it was late into the night, early in the morning. Nearing four, the youngest announced it was time to sleep, he would, after all, be leaving in mere hours. He ignored his friends when they told him he should stay in the morning and go to work later, instead rising from his comfortable chair to get ready for bed. When he asked for his phone back, Mike Shinoda promised he would bring it up to his room later. With "don't forget", and a "goodnight", he disappeared up the stairs to the room in which he usually stayed when at the house.

It wasn't long before the other two stood as well to end the night. The curly-haired man told his friend to get some rest before he, too made his way upstairs. The elder took his time padding around the house, locking the door, turning off the lights, and shutting everything down. Shoes from where he left them in one hand, he picked up his smaller, black and cream dog in his other before walking to the other side of the house. Even in the darkness, he quietly and easily ascended the carpeted steps leading to the wing with his bed room. The medium-sized dog, as always made the leisurely trek with him.

By feel, they made their way into the large room upstairs. The Asian man flicked on only the bedside lamp when he reached it, gently resting his dog on the huge bed. After placing the shoes in his expansive closet with care, he entered his luxurious bathroom to get ready for bed. His precious pets lay on his bed as he meticulously undressed to get in his pajamas. The watch around his wrist was removed and set amongst the others in a dresser drawer, the wallet was pulled from his pocket and laid on the nightstand, his phone set carefully beside it. Rob's device he tossed on the bed as he went again to his closet, shrugging out of his jacket to hang it up, removing his belt to rest it where it belonged, and pulling off his jeans to drop them in the hamper before finally slipping on flannel pajama pants.

Coming back to his room, he grabbed the phone, telling his dogs to stay as he exited his bed room. He walked around the corner to see Brad's door closed and his light off. So was Rob's, but he knew the latter was probably awake. Quietly, he opened the door and stepped in, his bare feet sinking slightly in the soft carpet. The younger man was on his side with his eyes shut, but his breathing gave away the erratic activity still going in his head. The half-Japanese man sat on the edge, putting a hand to his friend’s shoulder.

"I know you're not asleep," his deep voice came softly in the silence. "You've become almost as bad as me, huh, Rob?" His thumb rubbed soothing circles over his shoulder.

"I'm not a child anymore, Mike. You don't have to come tuck me in and read me a bedtime story," the brunette grumbled, one eye opening a sliver.

The Asian smiled, "I like to though. You need someone to take care of you after all you do," he replied. His friend only grunted in response, shutting his eye again. "Stop thinking and get some sleep, Bourdie," the dark-haired man whispered, standing up with one last squeeze of his friend's shoulder. He rested the phone on the table beside the bed before taking his leave, shutting the door softly behind himself.

Back in his own room, he pulled back the covers and slid under them before resting back against his pillows. Hatsu crawled up to the spot next to his body, half under the comforter, she rested her head on his broad shoulder. He stroked her soft, pointed ears as his larger dog settled down near his feet. One arm reached out to shut off the light, and Mike Shinoda closed his eyes to pursue sleep for the night.


	4. Thoughts were spinning

As Mike Shinoda opened his eyes in the morning, he was met with the soft glow of sunlight announcing the next day to him. A turn of his head showed him a mixture of black and cream fur, warm across his arm. Glancing the other direction, he looked at the clock to see it read 9:21 am; surely Rob had left already. He rubbed his eyes and reached for his phone, notifications lighting the screen. Removing his arm from under his dog, he skimmed various messages, choosing the ones to read thoroughly. Two sent almost half an hour earlier were the ones he cared about.

 

From Maggie:

Boy was that a job

It'll be ready in a little over an hour.

 

That was all he needed to know. Stretching, he sat up and tossed the covers, slipping his glasses on his face. After using the bathroom quickly, he made his way downstairs, his groggy pets following slowly behind. He went to the dining room first, opening the sliding glass door to allow the dogs to get out for a minute. There, he found a smiling Brad at the table, phone in one hand, a steaming mug of coffee in the other. In the kitchen, there was enough in the pot left for his own cup, to which the Asian added honey.

Across the city, Chester Bennington was also rising, waking up to something much harsher than warm coffee---something like a cup of icy water.

"What the fuck?" he sputtered, shaking his head, his eyes wide open to find his wife, a glass in one manicured hand, the other resting on her jutted out hip.

"Asshole," the woman snarled down at him, dropping the empty cup on his chest.

"I was out late, I'm sorry, Sam," the man fell back on the cushions of his couch, hands to his now cold and wet face. He had hoped she would just leave in the morning, and that he could prolong their inevitable argument even later.

"You could have called or answered at least one of my fucking messages. Jesus, why do I even bother? You obviously don't give a shit because you make no fucking effort in this relationship!" she was screaming, and his head was pounding.

"Can we not do this right now?" he cringed.

"Oh and when would we, huh, Chester? You're never here! You don't come home after work, you don't tell me where you're gonna be, when else is there?" she shrieked.

"Maybe I would come home if you did something other than yell at me all the time," he retorted, sitting up with a glare.

"If you weren't such an idiot and a fuckup, maybe I wouldn't have to yell at you!"

"Right, everything's my fault. Glad we've established that for the eighty-billionth time," he rolled his eyes as he massaged his temples. The last thing he saw was her middle finger before his wife marched out the door, slamming it as she left.

With a groan, he reached out to his glasses where he left them on the coffee table. He brought them to his face, and stood, wobbling a little as he slowly walked to the kitchen area. After putting on a pot of coffee, the thin man moved to his bathroom to undress and take a shower. The water was warm at best, and he exited feeling only a tiny bit refreshed. A towel around his waist, he went to their bedroom only long enough to dress for work.

His coffee was acceptable, and he sipped it trying to relax at the counter. The hot beverage and some aspirin helped to tame the headache, allowing him to think. His mind took him back to the previous night yet again. He knew he had to go back to the bar despite what both Shinoda and Rob had told him. The whole place called to his entire existence, begging him to return to its shady ambience. The thin man was desperate to find out who the men were and why they seemed to rule the place.

As he drank his breakfast, the man about whom he was speculating was doing the same, however in a much nicer place. Mike was discussing the day with his friend, when he finished his coffee. He stood and told the curly-haired man that they would be leaving in less than a half an hour before heading back upstairs.

In his room again, he stepped into his bathroom for a steamy shower, relaxing his muscles and cleaning away the previous night. When he got out he put in his contacts and brushed his teeth from his morning drink. Standing in front of the long mirror in the tiled room, he rubbed a towel to his head to dry his hair before walking out through his room and to his closet. He dressed himself in clean, near-black trousers and a heather grey silk shirt, buttoning it with care. A thin belt was the next thing he pulled, securing it around his hips before reaching for a black tie sporting thin white stripes which he skillfully placed around his neck with a perfect knot. He topped it with a matching dark grey suit jacket before walking out to his dresser where he put on a silver watch. With a last touch of gel combing his hair to the side, he slipped his wallet and phone in his inner jacket pockets, left his room and shut the door behind him, shoes in hand.

He called to his friend as he walked downstairs. Mike was gathering his dogs after feeding them when his friend came downstairs. Brad was in the same jeans and hoodie that he was wearing the night before. The Asian looked at him skeptically. “You don’t look dressed for work.”

“I’ll go in later, but Elisa and I are gonna hang out, maybe go to lunch or something. Wanna drop me at her place?” the curly-haired male shrugged with a shit-eating grin.

“Sure, whatever,” the half-Japanese man rolled his eyes. “Go grab the Escalade keys, will you? Meet me in the garage.” As thinner man walked down the hall with a nod, he pulled out his phone and dialed his other friend.

“Bourdon,” the line picked up.

“Rob, pick you up in half an hour, alright? The kid’s car is ready to go,” the dark-haired man said straight out.

“His name is Chester,” the other man commented monotonously.

“I didn’t ask,” was Mike’s blunt response.

“Why do you need me?” his friend sounded tired, but the Asian had set his mind.

“I need you to drive the car back to his place,” he reasoned.

There was a pause before a resigned, “fine,” came over the line.

“See you.”

Through the kitchen, he entered the garage, calling his dogs’ names for them to join him. From a shelf on the wall he picked up the collars he only made them wear when they were outside the house, and slipped them around each dog’s neck, grabbing the leashes as well. They weren’t really necessary on his well-trained pets, but everyone in L.A. was more comfortable with the leashes.

Brad was leaning against the hood of the large, black SUV with his phone in hand, keys hanging off one of his fingers. He held them up, out to his friend when he passed without raising his eyes from the screen. The Asian took them and opened the backseat door. He snapped his fingers and pointed inside the car, his larger dog obediently hopping up while he had to pick up the smaller Shiba Inu to put her inside.

“Why are you bringing the dogs?” the brunette questioned as he slid into the passenger seat.

“I might not come back to the house tonight. I don’t want to just leave them,” Mike said, sitting behind the wheel and opening the large garage door. He turned on the engine, and peeled out into the driveway as soon as the metal door lifted enough for him to get out. With a click of the controller, the door shut as soon as it had opened, and the curly-haired man in the passenger side shook his head at the tires screeching out onto the road. Mike Shinoda could drive like a manic sometimes.

With the speeds at which the Asian drove, they got into the city in no time. From there, they picked up a slightly-annoyed Rob dressed in a business suit.

“Brad,” the taller man glanced at his friend’s choice of wardrobe from the backseat. “You know you have to work today, right?

“Yeah, but not til later,” the curly-haired man had a sideways smile across his mouth.

“He’s going to see Elisa,” the half-Japanese man spoke mockingly as he drove back out onto the streets, seemingly headed in the direction of the bar.

“Of course he is,” Rob rolled his eyes. He was unhappy to be pulled from work at such a busy time. “Where the hell are we going, Mike?” he recognized the area---he knew every street in the city, just like the rest of them---but he couldn’t figure out where his friend was taking them, and why.

“You know the Samsons? Yeah, they own an auto-repair shop. Maggie is a friend, and a while back I helped her from losing the place. She and her team fixed up the boy’s car.”

“…Mike?” the brunette’s brows furrowed as he curiously tried to calculate in his head.

“Yeah?” their dark-haired friend was acting completely normal.

“I saw the damage. Fixing it up is near impossible. It would cost a substantial amount. Are _you_ paying for it?” Rob was perplexed at why he was doing this.

“Well, yeah. I’ll figure it out with Maggie,” the Asian was nonchalant.

“Why?” it didn’t sound like a question. Brad just sat in the front seat, looking out the front window as he listened.

“Because Mags and I can probably come to some agreement less than the normal price,” he responded easily.

“No. Why are you doing this?” the taller man asked suspiciously.

“Because I can,” was the only answer he got as they pulled into a dirt parking lot outside what appeared to be their destination, Chester’s Honda sitting outside proudly. Rob gawked at how…usable it looked. Mike cut the engine and stepped out, walking out and calling to an eccentric looking woman covered in grease.

The man in the back seat got out as well, opening the passenger side door and leaning on it to talk to his friend. “Brad, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, but I wish I did. He wouldn’t fucking tell me anything. I have no idea why he’s taking care of this kid.” They watched their friend in question laughing and chatting with the woman before she handed him something and they shook hands. He turned back to the car and walked towards them; the man stood out in stark contrast with his dark clean suit against the rusty-looking shop.

He tossed the key he held to his taller friend who reflexively raised his hand and caught them to stop the metal object from hitting him in the face.

“How did you get a key? Chester still had them,” Rob asked in bewilderment.

“Didn’t you know, Robbie? We have the technology to make copies from the car,” the dark-haired man looked smug as he walked back to his car. “I’ll follow you to the boy’s place, then take you back to the office.” He ignored his friends shaking their heads in confusion, and got ready to go.

When it was done, Rob was happily back at work, and Brad was at his girlfriend’s, Mike Shinoda took his time driving over to the store. He pulled over to the curb and looked up at the building. He remembered living in the second-floor apartment when he was much younger. Hatsu was sleeping curled in the backseat, but the larger dog who had jumped up front when Brad left was staring at him intently, so the man reached for a leash and got out with him

He entered the store, feeling at home amongst the racks of CD’s and vinyls. With just a nod to the kid at the front counter, he slipped into the office in the back. The clean-shaven brunette at the desk was surprised to see the Asian standing in the doorway. “Mike,” he stuttered, “whatcha doin’ here, man?”

“What, I can’t come to check on this place?”

“Of course,” the other responded, rising from his chair to shake hands with his old friend, and pull him into a hug. “I just wasn’t expecting you, today.”

“Up for a lunch meeting?” the dark-haired man asked, to which his friend replied by picking up his jacket to leave.

When the coffee was gone, and the time on his phone read 11:23, Chester felt he should go out and see how he was getting to work. He doubted that Rob would actually show up no matter what he said. It just didn’t seem like something any of these men would do. Picking up his keys and slipping on his shoes, he left his apartment.

His eyes were to his feet as he stepped down the walkway from the building door to the sidewalk. When he finally looked up, he was met with his car---the same car that got torn apart less than twelve hours before. There were once again doors and wheels on his poor Honda, in fact it might have looked even better than before.

He was frozen in shock on the sidewalk, wondering how Rob had managed getting his car back when he caught a glimpse of a shiny black SUV across the street. Such a car was much too expensive and perfect to be found by his building, and that was when he noticed the tall brunette man who had driven him home. Their eyes met and he gave the thinner man a nod as he slipped into the back seat of the unfamiliar vehicle. Sitting stone faced in the driver’s seat was the very man that had been plaguing the musician’s thoughts since the meeting in the bar. Even though he had only met the dark-haired man once, and he could hardly see into the black car, he would have recognized that particular person anywhere. He could just make out his handsome features before they tore off down the street.

It was his doing. Mike Shinoda had gotten his car back. Knowing he was involved only formed more questions in Chester’s mind and fueled his hunger to learn more.

On his lunch break he ate with a couple of his coworkers, chatting before having to go back to stocking and being nice to customers. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about them, he decided to bring the strange men he had met into the conversation. “Do you guys know who Mike Shinoda is?" he asked hesitantly. He hardly thought these were the people would be acquainted with the dark man, but Rob had said most people knew who he was.

“Mike Shinoda?” the guy asked vehemently. “Oh yeah, man. He’s the head of some crazy gang up on the northwest side, known for gang fights. This one time when he was in like, high school he put two guys in the hospital by himself. He’s young, but he’s super dangerous, and like, totally psychotic. I hear he can kill a man without even blinking. Then, he never gets in trouble ‘cause his family is like totally loaded.”

“Yeah,” his other coworker, Lorie, piped in. “Chris is right. His dad, Michael Shinoda the first, is some huge-ass businessman or something. Even if someone tried to press charges, his dad’s lawyers would totally get him off. The man’s like a gazillionaire and he just gives Mike whatever he wants.”

“The guy barely graduated high school, but his father paid for him to get into college. Then he dropped out after a few years. Total waste. Why you askin’?” Chris asked with his mouth full.

“I met him, that’s all. He and his friends helped me out some,” the singer didn’t go into detail on _how_ they had helped him.

“Helped you?” the other man’s jaw dropped. “Do you have something he wants?”

“Not that I know of,” Chester started to feel uncomfortable about the whole thing, almost wishing he hadn’t said anything.

“Well, I’d stay the hell away from him. Things don’t usually go well for those he takes interest in,” his coworker was shaking his head.

“Not to mention he and the rest of his friends are gangbangers and dirty drug dealers,” the young woman looked disgusted, coming back into the gossip.

“Seriously, dude, it’s best to stay away from that area entirely.” Those were the last words on the subject before they went back to work.

The musician had no idea what to think. His coworkers’ stories seemed a little farfetched in places, but he could remember how dangerous they had seemed when he met them. They didn't seem as stupid as Chris and Lorie had portrayed them. Rob had appeared to be nice enough, and he spoke no ill of Mike, but why would he? He was part of this gang or whatever. Is that what he meant? Jumping into the gang was how to get into the man’s inner circles? Their talk did little to satisfy the questions still coursing through the small brunette’s head.

That’s how after getting off work he ended up back at the Phoenix bar---this time by a cab. He had gone home and changed, slipping out when his wife was busy, and getting a taxi. The driver had looked at him like he was nuts when he explained where exactly he wanted to go. Apparently everyone else in the city saw red flags shoot up at even the mention of that side of town, everyone except Chester.

He entered, more hesitantly than the first time, but determined to talk to the Asian, determined to ask him who he was and what he wanted from him. Just like the night before, he was met with smoke and warm air, but this time it was quieter. He was there a good time earlier than he had been previously, and things were not moving as fast. There were less people filling the seats and the floor, and they were soberly chatting about whatever it was they talked about. His eyes searched the space for the dark-haired man he had come to see as he walked along the edges awkwardly.

As he neared the side, he could hear the notes, the beautiful music coming from the piano he had seen the first time. Raising his gaze to find it, he saw none other than Mike Shinoda sitting at the stunning instrument, his fingers flowing over the keys in perfect harmony.

Chester approached from the side, trying to stay in the shadows as he slowly came nearer to the man. At least he thought he was being stealthy until the smooth deep voice reached his ears again.

“What the hell are you doing here?”


	5. This is not the beginning

Chester was startled, not expecting to be seen since the man hadn’t even looked up from the black and white keys beneath his graceful fingers. Any words he had prepared before he got there fell away as he stood where he was in the dimness at the edge of activity.

“It’s called peripheral vision,” the man behind the instrument spoke again, his hands unfaltering in the sweet music.

The thinner man tried not to get distracted by the melodies being painted in his mind as the tune danced across his ears. “I-I didn’t think you’d notice me,” he stuttered, still attempting to gather his thoughts.

“You didn’t think I would notice the stupid, scrawny kid approaching me for the second night in a row? Didn’t you learn your lesson?” Mike Shinoda’s voice was cold.

The singer once again felt small and young instead of the grown man he was. His eyes fell to his feet as if he was a teenager being scolded in class. Biting his lip, he studied the worn toes on his black boots. His shoulders were hunched forward, and he hated how he felt in that moment. Drowning in his self-pity and complete lack of confidence, he didn’t notice the piano fade out or the Asian man rising from the bench.

“I ask again, what are you doing here?” he walked around the elegant instrument, his voice impatient. Black and white sneakers passed through Chester’s sight with his eyes still inspecting the floor.

Gazing up again, he trailed after the dark-haired man who slid into a booth in the back, not far from where they were. “Why did you help me?” the words tumbled pathetically as he sat across from the other man. The Asian was wearing the same dark jeans he had the night before, but as he sat down, he stripped off his leather jacket to reveal a grey tee shirt that fell perfectly over the contours of his torso.

Mike looked peeved that the singer had joined him, and he ignored his question, instead waving over a blonde waitress. Like the other one the smaller man had seen before, she was dressed in skin-tight black pants, a tank top, and heels.

“Get me a beer, yeah? Bottle.” he spoke as soon as she had reached their table. Her hair was curly, and bounced when she moved. She appeared easily in shape and happily independent. There was dark blue polish on her perfect fingernails where her small hands rested on her curvy hips.

“A beer? So tame tonight, Mikey,” her words were full of teasing and familiarity---friendship even.

“Hey, I gotta work tonight. No time to get shit-faced,” he smirked back at her.

“Oh hun, you’re working too hard, can’t you take a night off?” the blonde looked at him in a motherly sort of fashion.

“I did. Last night.”

“Last night you were at the office until ten-thirty. I’d hardly call that a night off,” she scolded.

“Brad been reporting to you?” the man raised his eyebrows at her. “There’s no time to be off, Lissa. It’s a busy time and it cannot be ignored.”

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself, Mike Shinoda,” the woman warned before turning to the brunette that had been following their every word. He didn’t miss the up-and-down look of judgment that she gave him as she asked, “Anything for you?” She seemed almost pained to ask him, rather different from the caring tone she had been using a minute earlier. He was learning how quickly people there could switch.

“Nothing for him,” the Asian interrupted before the singer could even open his mouth. “He shouldn’t be staying long anyway,” Chester caught the hint in his voice, but he stupidly ignored it.

The waitress gave them one last funny look before heading back towards the bar.

“You don’t belong here,” Mike said again, fixing a glare on the person across from him.

The thin musician didn’t respond, daring to ask a question of his own. “Why did you fix my car?” his voice came out small and frightened, and he cursed himself inwardly for not being able to stand tall to this man.

“Who says I did?” the dark-haired male leaned back and crossed his arms, having no idea why he was playing this game. He was not one to hide his choices, not giving a fuck about anyone else’s opinion. This dumb kid just made him do strange things.

“I saw you,” the singer tried to force his voice to hold the icy tone of his new acquaintance.

“I don’t even know your name, why would I help you with your car?” he was defensive, barely nodding as the waitress returned with his beer, placing it on the table in front of him.

“That’s my question,” Chester mumbled.

“Why the fuck would you park your car in such a place?’ the half-Japanese man changed the direction of their conversation, picking up the cold bottle and waving it around to accent his points. “Are you a complete idiot? Did you look around before walking away? Furthermore, what in the fuck are you doing back here?”

Again, his questions didn't get a response. “We didn’t formally meet last night,” the small musician was shaking behind his words, but tried to put on a confident face to the intimidating male. With an outstretched arm, he said, “Hi, I’m Chester Bennington.”

Mike looked at his hand with disdain until it fell awkwardly back to the table. “I don’t care who you are, kid. You don’t belong here.”

“Can you stop calling me a kid?” the singer burst out in frustration. “I’m twenty-seven for fuck’s sake. There’s like five people right here who look like they’ve just turned twenty-one” he gestured around them towards the people surely younger than himself. “I am not the god damned kid.”

Finally, a smile broke out onto the Asian’s cold expression. “Here, your age is measured in experience,” he sipped on his beer, looking amused at the outburst, “of which you have none."

The sound of a cell broke through and the brunette ignored the call, barely looking at his phone to see his wife’s name flash across the screen. Dark brown eyes studied him as he ignored three more calls directly after the first before shutting it off. “You don’t know anything about me, or my experiences,” mumbled the musician.

“Well that’s not true,” the dark-haired man said, his grin looking slightly nefarious. "I know that you’re foolish enough to leave your car in a ghetto area, and that you’re senseless enough to return to a place where you almost got your ass kicked. I know that you have no idea how to survive in a bar such as this one, nor do you have any other knowledge about it. I know that you’re full of fear and self-doubt, and I also know that you are unhappily married.”

Chester frowned, trying to process the words that had just been hurled at him. Besides the insults, there was a ring of truth to his statements. They had spoken all of once before, and it been brief; how could he possibly have gathered all of that?

“Am I wrong?” the male across from him was smug, drinking his beer calmly. He chuckled when the thin man just stared at his pale hands on the dark wood of the table. Beginning to enjoy himself, he taunted the poor singer some more, “so little Bennington, why not get a divorce?”

“How do you even know---” they man started before he got cut off.

“You wear a wedding ring, and you ignored those calls.”

“So?” he still didn’t understand how that said he was unhappy with his marriage.

“So you’re married and you refuse to talk to your wife. Not to mention you being here late into the night, alone. Generally a sign of a bad marriage.”

“How do you know it was my wife?”

“Who else is going to call repeatedly? Guys don’t do that,” he rolled his eyes. “Get some balls and leave her. You want to not feel like a child? Man up," his voice grew harsh again.

“Who the hell are you to judge me?” the thin musician was tiring of the way he was being spoken to. "You don't know me or my life. I can play this game, too. You have no ring, you're not married. In fact, I bet you just float from one skank to the next," he fluttered his hands to make his point. "You don't know anything about marriage or divorce. You have no idea what it's like to live paycheck to paycheck with a family. You're just an arrogant rich kid who thinks he's so rebellious and badass, living off daddy's money without a care for anyone else." His chest was rising and falling heavily as he finished. In his right mind, he would never have spoken so crassly to the other man---he was a little scared of him. However, anger had consumed his body at the mocking, and it was impulsive.

Mike was looking at him as he played with the near-empty bottle in front of him. He seemed mildly impressed, but mostly amused. Chuckling, he said, "Been asking around about me, have you?"

The singer shrugged. "I heard some things."

"Mm, and what did you learn?" the half-Japanese man downed the rest of his beer. There was a smile on his lips, but it was neither friendly nor pleasant.

"That people should avoid you like the plague," Chester's expression resembled that of an angry pout on a mischievous teenager.

"Ooh, you can learn! So for what are you here? If I'm so bad, why did you come back and clearly seek out my company?"

The thinner man was again irked by the patronizing and berating tone, prompting another bout of anger to surge through him and spill from his mouth. "I just want to know what you want from me. You didn't help me just to be nice, your type never do things out of the kindness of your cold, bloody hearts. I don't want anything to do with you or the gang you head, so leave me out of whatever the fuck it is."

His blood ran cold at the look of fury that fell over the dark-haired male's face. The Asian's knuckles were turning white from clenching his fists so tight and his body was tensed. Daggers could have come from his dark eyes, searing through the singer's soul. It appeared Mike Shinoda had finally lost his control as he shot to his feet, leaning over to jab a long finger into the smaller man's shaking chest. There was enough force to knock him against the backrest of the booth, where he sat, fearful and trembling as he looked frightenedly into the almost black eyes.

"You know nothing about gangs," his voice shook with rage as he stood over the pale musician he still had pinned to the booth. "You don't know a thing about me, or this place. Stay the fuck away, or I'll have the pleasure of watching the life bleed from your body because of your own stupidity and ignorance. Don’t come back, Chester Bennington." With that he grabbed his jacket and walked away. He dropped some bills on a passing waitress' tray before storming out the door.

Thoughts whirled in the singer's head, and he didn't notice the other body slide into the booth across from him. He rubbed the spot growing sore where the man's finger has stabbed him. Clearly he had hit a nerve, and pissed off the Asian man. Did the man confirm what Lorie and Chris had told him? Did he deny it? Were they right? He had no more answers to his questions than when he entered, but there were a few things about which he was positive: he was absolutely terrified of the dangerous man, and at the same time, he was terribly intrigued by Mike Shinoda.

"Hey!" Fingers snapped in front of Chester's face. He blinked as he was broken from his speculation and a man with brown, curly hair and a beard came into focus before him. The musician tried to place the face; he didn't think he had met this person, yet he still looked familiar.

“Who are you?” the guy questioned him with zero introduction himself. Then he recognized the voice and his forthright tone from the night before. This was the man that he and Rob had run into exiting the bar. “What does Mike want from you?” this new person sounded exasperated at the lack of answer and the singer’s slowness to respond in any way.

“Sorry?” the musician squinted at the curly-haired man across from him, cocking his head to the side in confusion. His heart was still pounding as he tried process what the dark-haired man had said before he left, and now this guy was spitting questions at him. “I don’t even know you,” he sputtered out, leaning forward in his seat with his elbows now resting on the table.

“Hi, my name is Brad,” the man said quickly and dryly, reaching over, picking up the hand on the table, and shaking it sarcastically. “Why were you talking to Mike Shinoda?” he asked again brusquely.

“I-I don’t know,” the musician was stuttering, still lost in everything that had happened in the last five minutes.

“What did he want from you?”

“I have no idea," his voice sounded little to the questions being rapidly fired at him.

“Who are you?”

“Chester Bennington,” utter bewilderment made him respond without thinking.

“Yeah, and?”

“I don’t know. I’m not anyone. I just moved here. My wife and I came from Arizona to set up a shop here like the one in Tempe," his words were blundering and unsure.

“What shop?”

“Uh, Club Tattoo?” he seemed uncertain of his own responses.

“Small business?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s pretty popular back home.”

“I don’t understand,” Brad fell back with a sigh, resting on the back of the booth comfortably. He was wearing a red and black flannel shirt buttoned up. It looked the slightest bit large on his bony frame.

“Excuse me?” the singer looked at him, puzzled.

“I don’t understand why Mike is giving you any of his time,” he elaborated.

“Why? Jealous?” he felt cocky for a half moment at the prospect that he was special if this supposedly great man was interested in him.

The curly-haired man snorted, “No. He’s my best friend, why would I need to be jealous of the scraps of attention he’s thrown at your feet?”

Chester was getting fed up with how everyone spoke to him so condescendingly. "What the fuck is up with you people? Are you always such dicks? What makes me less of a person than you assholes?"

It was clear by the surprise on the taller man's face that he was not accustomed to being spoken to in such an unrefined manner, and he surely was not expecting it from the singer. Still, like Mike, it was like he was looking at a stubborn child, not a grown man. Before he could spit anything back---fortunately for the musician---the blonde waitress from before came over to the table.

"Brad? What happened to Mike? He looked pretty angry," she stepped up close to his side, a hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.

"I saw. I was trying to ask this guy what he wanted," he pointed at the irritated man across from him as he looked up at the woman. "I can't find a single reason for why he would help him. It's just not Mike." His voice fell away to mumbles as he thought to himself. Chester picked up only a few words like, "business" and "maybe he wants", but could make nothing of it.

"If you're such great friends with Mike, why don't you just ask him?" he spoke boldly, throwing the other man' swords back at him.

Brad burned with annoyance that he had already tried that and hadn't gotten any sort of real answer. "Because I'm asking you," he said anyway, glaring at the smaller man.

"Babe, calm down. He's clearly new here," the waitress spoke, seeing the curly-haired man begin to bristle.

"Whatever," he growled and then turned back to the musician. "Are you done here?"

"What do you care?" the shorter man said with defiance.

"I'll walk you out."

"I can take care of myself," he was indignant.

"No, you can't. Not here."

"I'm just gonna get a cab home," Chester said tiredly, giving up his attempt to act tough.

The other man just laughed, "Cabs don't come over here. You'll have to go at least a couple blocks before you can catch one. I'll take you." He didn't let the singer argue as he stood, pulling closer the woman who had been standing by his side through the whole exchange. "When do you get off?" he asked her in a soft voice with his hands on her thin waist.

She looked up at him so their faces were nearly touching, “one.”

“I’ll be back by then.” They smiled at each other before he leaned forward for a simple kiss. Once they parted, the curly-haired man went back to his offhand manner of speaking. “C’mon. Let’s go,” he said tersely to the musician.

The only thing Chester could do was rise from the booth and follow the curly-haired man out the door. Brad walked them down sidewalks by sketchy storefront windows, shady bars and clubs, and a number of dark alleyways. He didn’t attempt conversation, but at one point he took out his phone and called a cab for wherever their destination was. The singer tried to ask him who Mike Shinoda was exactly, but he had just snorted again and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know.” That ended the musician’s desire to chat with this man.

The curly-haired male wasn’t as outrightly vicious as the Asian had been, but he was blunt and uncaring to anything other than what he wanted to know. The smaller man was put off by the curt way he talked. He had definitely preferred his interactions with Rob from the previous night.

Once they reached the more populated area of the city, they found the cab waiting for them. Chester turned to the other man to comment how nothing had gone wrong the whole walk there. “Nothing happened. See? I would have been fine without you.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Brad shook his head at him before he turned back the way they had come, not bothering to hear an answer or to watch the singer get in the yellow car. He was still trying to work out in his head why his friend cared for the pale man they all saw as a naive child.


	6. Need something to hold on to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been putting notes, but I feel like I probably should for this chapter.  
> Just a warning, there is porn in this chapter. If you don't want to read that, go ahead and skip to somewhere in the middle (a little less than a third of the way through the chapter). It's very close to the beginning.

The music was loud, the lights colorful and flashing. Alcohol flowed freely and drugs were being ingested in various, not-so-discreet ways. The people were wild and highly intoxicated.

He rarely came to these clubs, but after the words of the impetuous, thinner man, he had some serious anger to burn off. A cigarette hung from his lips, the nicotine doing little to lessen his fury. The Asian stepped around the bodies until he could catch the eyes of his usual target, a young woman giggling to the blonde bartender. Positive that she had seen him, he walked along the edges before coming to the door where he slipped out to the back alley. There, he leaned on the concrete wall, breathing in and blowing out the smoke slowly. He took long drags as he waited, trying to calm the lingering craving to wring Chester's neck with his hands. The stupid kid knew nothing. He was flagrantly unaware of what it was like to have his whole life there, the streets as his home. What did he know about any of the things that happened there? What could he possibly know about gangs? Drug dealers and street wars? The dreadfully uninformed bastard made him grind his teeth, vexed beyond his restraint.

His cigarette was nearing its end when the door finally opened again, the girl exiting and coming to stand before the dark-haired man. “Took you long enough,” he flicked the glowing butt onto the ground, crushing it with his heel, as he pulled the thin waist towards himself. Immediately his mouth met hers and his tongue slipped in.

The thin zip-up hoodie that hugged her stomach and breasts barely reached her belly button, and the bright pink shorts she was wearing were so low that the lace of her thong underwear was easily visible. The pumps that she wore would cause anyone to think she was a dancer in the seedy area, but they lifted her to a height that could actually fit with the Asian man’s.

She shivered when the man’s cold fingers touched her bare skin already becoming cold in the night air. With arms going around his neck, she kissed him back, letting him walk her backwards until she was up against the wall. The man unzipped the fabric around her upper body to reveal the pink, lacy bra, and stripped it from her thin arms. He pulled his mouth from hers for a moment to look down at her alluring bust, placing his large hand in the middle of her chest before slipping it under the material to cup one of her breasts and diving into her neck with his lips. As his one hand squeezed the soft flesh of her breast, his thumb rubbing over the hardening nipple, his other danced up her back until he reached the clasp of her bra, and unhooked it skillfully.

It fell off her chest, and he removed it so she was standing in just her shorts in the dirty alley, her hoodie pinned to the wall, protecting her back from the grimy concrete against which she was pressed. Breathing heavily, his teeth and lips worked on her neck, bruising the soft skin as her head fell back against the wall. Gasping for breath between her own moans of pleasure as his hand trailed lower, she clumsily unbuttoned his jeans to free the hardening length straining to be released.

Only a few strokes from her skilled hands, and the throbbing dick stood at its full height. The dark-haired man dropped her shorts in one firm yank, the underwear quickly falling to the ground after them as well. He drew back his hand from her breasts and unlatched his lips from her collarbone to take one of her legs by the back of the knee and lift it, pinning it up against the wall behind her, sufficiently opening her soaking heat to him. With his other hand, he aligned his cock with her own sex.

She was looking up at him with what she probably hoped was a seductive expression, but with the proximity of their faces he could distinctly see the crap ton of makeup that was caked on her skin, smeared and messy from them making out. He pushed down his disgust by closing his eyes and capturing her lips again as he made the thrust to sheathe his member inside of her. It took no time for him to build up a fast pace, her head falling back again as he pounded into the girl. His name mixed between moans slipped from her lips, high pitched compared to his deep grunts and groans. With the hand not holding up her leg, he placed a large palm on her neck, his black watch dark against her fair skin. His thumb ruggedly caressed her throat and his fingers played over her pulse, teetering on the verge of violence. She had her own hands buried in his hair, rubbing out whatever gel was still styled into the short, obsidian mane.

Just as she screamed in ecstasy, he dropped his head until his forehead leaned against the cement, his lips near her ear. He slowed his hips as she came back down, moaning as he felt the tightening begin in his abdomen. “I’m gonna cum,” he breathed out as he reluctantly removed himself from her tightness, hissing at the cold air hitting his dick again.

It wasn’t out long, for as soon as he released her leg, the girl dropped to her knees and wrapped her mouth around his leaking cock. He held her hair with one of his hands, his other arm braced against the wall with a tight fist as she used her mouth and hand to bring forth his own orgasm. Panting, he unleashed his hot seed down her throat, and she swallowed with practiced ease.

He caught his breath, his dark eyes staring down at the girl as she finished licking up every drop she could find. The girl smiled up at him, jumping up to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his lips. He returned the gesture for a moment before firmly placing his hands on her rib cage and gently pushing her body off of his own. It did nothing to the wide smile across her face as she happily looked at him, teething her bottom lip. Taking a small step back, he pulled up his boxers and jeans from where they had been slid down to his knees, his leather jacket the only piece of clothing that had found its way into the pile of discarded garments. He bent to pick it up and gave one last kiss to the girl, softly biting her lip as he pulled away, signaling the end of their fun for the night and leaving her to fix herself.

“Great, how am I supposed to explain this to Tristan?” she complained at the red bruises on her neck, turning her head awkwardly to try and see them, but Mike Shinoda had already started down the alley. He was gone by the time she had pulled her clothes together again, getting ready to return to her boyfriend tending the bar inside the club.

The cold air felt good on his skin now sweaty from the sex. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small box and his silver lighter. Taking out one of the little white sticks, he placed it between his lips and flicked on the flame. A hand cupped around the end, he lit the cigarette before slipping both the box and lighter back into his pocket.

He walked through the streets he knew well, his pace quick, but smooth and easy. With long drags on the cigarette he held, he made his way around the dark, sketchy places, discouraging the thieving creatures hidden in the shadows with his well-known figure, hard eyes, and ready fist. It didn’t take long for the man to reach the busier area of the city, the activity hardly slowing as the start of the next day approached. He walked through the crowds of people, ignoring as much as he could around himself. He was smiled at by barely dressed women on the streets, sized up by men laughing outside of bars, and glared at enviously by urchins sitting upon filthy rags on the sidewalk. Most others gave him the wide radius he desired, not exactly wanting to get mixed up with the dark man.

After the long walk, he finally reached his building, sticking his cigarette in the ashtray of the trash can near the entrance before he took the stairs up three flights. The Asian made his way down the hall to the end where he pulled out a key and unlocked the door. Immediately shutting it behind himself and kicking off his shoes in the kitchen, he walked through the dimly lit rooms until reaching the couch. There, he fell onto the cushions, his face rested in the crook of one elbow as his other arm hung to the floor. His socked feet were at the other end, ankles hitting the armrest.

When he turned his head to look at the dark living room, eyes as dark as his own met him, their owner nudging the man’s shoulder with his nose. The half-Japanese lifted his arm that had been grazing the carpet to pet the dog’s head, rubbing him behind the ears. He was running his thumbs over his pet’s soft ears when he felt a weight land near his side on the couch before little paws crawled up on his back. They pressed over his shoulder blades until a cold, wet nose touched his ear and nuzzled into his neck.

Mike laughed, crunching his shoulders up, his head back to stop his Shiba from nosing his bare neck. Careful not to knock her to the ground, he quickly flipped onto his back and threw his arms around her fur-covered body. His hands rubbed her sides as the black and cream dog licked his face lovingly. “Okay, I know I have to get up,” he spoke to the next to empty apartment. He sat his dog on the floor, and she ran into the kitchen nudging the dog bowls around the tiled floor.

“I fed you just hours ago, how are you already hungry, Hatsu?” The dog just wagged her tail at him as he followed, flicking on the lights.

He had taken both dogs to the office with him earlier in the day, then left them in his apartment when he went out for dinner and to the bar for a short time. His plan had originally been to come back before midnight and finish working, however leaving early and hitting up Joscelynn was the result of the unforeseen confrontation with Chester.

Chester. Anger burned within the Asian at just the thought of the smaller man and his ignorant words. What business had the idiot to come to _his_ city with accusations against him? How could he come in and insult _him_ when he had helped the fool?

After giving the dogs their food, Mike went into the office attached to his bedroom. With a sigh, he turned on the large Mac desktop and fell into his chair.

At this point, he could hire someone to take off some of the work, but he liked doing things himself and he had a problem giving up control. He kept the apartment in the city for nights such as that one so he could stay and work late without having to go back to the house. As well, Rob’s and Brad’s apartment was just down the hall where he could easily get to them if necessary or desired.

The day felt like it had been relatively unproductive to him, not getting nearly enough done for the nearing end of the week. Fixing the boy's car had done nothing for him, so the earliest thing he considered to have completed was the lunch meeting with Mark to discuss the store. After that he had gone into the office where his phone never ceased its ringing and his inbox was flooded with emails he resented needing to deal with. He had barely sat down when Rob had dragged him to a meeting he had never wanted to schedule in the first place.

When he called an end to the day, he ordered his taller friend home to rest, all but locking him in the younger man’s home. He had stopped by his own apartment to drop off his things and change out of his work attire. His energy already felt expended by the time he went out for the night. The aim for the night had been to relax in the comfort of the familiar bar. He had wanted to play his piano in the peace that only few could find in the rampageous establishment and settle his mind before returning to the work he knew would be awaiting him at home.

The half-Japanese workaholic deemed the next week virtually lost for getting anything done that he had to before the end of the month as Brad had sternly reminded him that his family was coming for the turkey-dinner holiday just around the corner. His brother was flying down Monday, his parents driving up Wednesday in preparation to celebrate at his house, and he was sure to lose valuable work hours with them there.

There weren't many clicks of the mouse or strokes on the keyboard until he felt a presence beside him. His black Kai ken sat next to his chair calmly, looking up at the screen as if he could actually comprehend the letters and numbers it displayed. Following the larger dog’s entrance, the Shiba trotted in, hopping into her bed that rested on a box next to the man’s desk.

He worked, dogs by his side, until thoughts overran his consciousness again. Something about the pale man was driving him mad. He did not give a damn about random individuals, yet he still helped this man. Fixing the car cost him thousands---probably more than the piece of crap was worth. Not that he didn’t have than money, but it definitely was not something he ever did for someone else. Chester was just so young and unsure. He was _innocent_. People like him didn’t last long in that area on their own.

Mike sat back in his chair, ceasing his attempts to work. Back at the bar, he had lost his temper. He was never the most pleasant person with whom to interact, but he was rarely ever provoked into breaking composure. Rage had overtaken him, and he probably shouldn’t have spoken so cruelly that night, but he only told the truth. Chester knew nothing about what he would get into in that area and he did not belong there. If he were to get into a fight, he didn’t stand a chance against any of them, let alone Mike himself whom the kid insisted on approaching.

Somehow he had been able to leave without serious damage to the newcomer; something was holding him back from harming the boy---that same something that prompted him to help him. It was uncharacteristic of him regarding a mere stranger, but he could not deny the strong feelings to protect him.

The half-Japanese man checked the time on his watch and groaned. It had hardly been an hour since he began working, and judging from what his computer screen read, he didn’t finish nearly as much as he had hoped to have that night. Nonetheless, he shut it down and made to get up; perhaps sleep would help clear his mind from this wretched compassion some part of him insisted on feeling.

In the bathroom he splashed cold water over his face, drawing it over his dark, charcoal hair as well. He walked with heavy, lazy steps into the bedroom and fell onto the covers, dogs already on the other side. Using his elbows, he dragged himself up to where he could bury his face in his pillow. When breathing into the cotton-encased down feathers grew uncomfortable, he turned over onto his back, vigorously ripping off his jacket and dropping it on the floor in the process.

Calloused fingers ran through his hair as he sighed again. Reaching into his left jeans pocket, he gripped the ever-present weapon there.

The cold wooden handle warmed with the heat of his palm around it, and he pulled it out. He lowered his head to look at it, the wood and metal married together almost artfully. The man turned it over in his hands letting his long fingers drift over each detail. One flick of a switch would release lethally sharp steel.

The dark-haired man ran his thumb up the handle, feeling the letters etched into the wood. The finish was worn in the perfect mold of his own hand where he held it many times. His fingers had run over the same spot so much that it was a different gradient over the letters. He knew every divot and dent, every imperfection, in the object. In some way or another, he had made every scratch on its surface---every one but the letters, “CB”.

Chester should heed his words no matter how discourteous they were divulged. People died. That was a fact. The streets were tumultuous, never at peace, and the storm didn’t slow for people unprepared.


	7. With fists flying up

Chester had been quiet during the cab ride home, in a sort of daze after his conversation with Mike Shinoda---if it could even be called such. His exchange with Brad had only confused him further. What everyone seemed to be telling him was that it was dangerous and that he shouldn't be there. Still, none of it seemed to dampen the magnetic pull he felt towards the Phoenix bar.

Everyone said he should stay away, but no one told him who they were or what it was. No one gave him answers.

He proceeded the next few days in a stupor, only going through the motions of his daily life. He went to work during the day, played small sets to bored audiences at night, and went home after, but his head was elsewhere. His thoughts were filled with a dream of life with these enigmatic people that he had met. He felt some unknown attraction of sorts to them, specifically Mike Shinoda. His wife decided to just ignore him most of the time, not that he did anything anyway. Nights were spent on the couch, buried in his imagination.

Eventually his unrelenting thoughts prompted him to return, no matter what he had been told during his last visit. He wanted to know, and understand; he wanted to be a part of it.

Things for Mike seemed to go back to normal again, as they always did, after the pesky outsider was discouraged. He spent most nights at the Phoenix as usual, his friends there too. The days were busy with work, hardly a break in between. Monday, he worked right up to the time Brad came in, dragged him out of the office, and practically threw him in the car and drove him to the airport to pick up his brother

There, he waited impatiently at the arrival gate for the younger man to exit, not that he was looking when he finally did come walking down the carpeted walkway, bags in hand. The elder was staring at his phone, fingers flying furiously over the screen as he attempted to continue working. He was leaning against a wall, frowning at the device in his hand, when the youth came up to him, waving wildly and making faces at his side.

"Yes, I see you," the older man bit out at him. After finishing what he was doing, he looked up into the goofy grin of his flesh and blood. "Jason," he greeted, speaking formally, "I trust your flight was okay." He pocketed the phone and reached out to shake the other man's hand.

The younger Asian laughed, bumping away the outstretched arm. "That's no way to greet your brother!" He dropped his bags and attacked his kin in a huge hug.

Slower, the elder put his arms around the youth, beginning to loosen from his business mode. "Hey Jay," his mouth started to quirk up. "How've you been?"

When they pulled away, nearly identical smiles on their similar faces, each picked up one of the dropped bags and they headed out of the terminal side by side to the drop off and pickup zone.

Brad was there, leaning against the door of the Mercedes in his jeans and cotton dress shirt, smirking at them as he ignored the other cars honking at him to move. He pushed off the vehicle to step towards the two half-Japanese men. “Bradford!” the younger called happily as they approached. They met in a brotherly hug, while the elder started putting bags in the trunk. “Now that’s a proper greeting, Mike,” Jason snickered, giving the curly-haired man a friendly slap on the back. They parted, the older man rolling his eyes at them. He shut the trunk and walked around to the side of the car where he opened the back door for his sibling.

“C’mon, bro. I’ve been on a long-ass plane ride and you’re gonna stick me in the backseat?” he teased.

“Oh give me a break, Jay. It’s only about an hour from San Francisco. My car, I’m calling seniority,” the older Asian stuck his tongue out with a sneer, shutting the door on the youth and getting in the passenger seat up front. Brad shook his head at them, sliding in behind the wheel and starting up the engine.

“Baby Shinoda has returned,” he chuckled at the bickering brothers.

“I resent that!” the younger called with a punch to the driver seat.

“But you are, baby bro!”

“Get off your high horse, asshole. You’re only older by like two years.” He turned to the other man, “So Brad, are you like Mike’s official driver or something now?”

“We thought we’d let you get a little more settled before being subjected to your brother’s horrid driving,” he laughed, ignoring his friend’s snort of annoyance.

“Shut up, I drive better than you do.”

The three caught up on the way back to the house, joking and howling with each other the whole time. Arriving, the two older men grabbed the bags and started up the steps with the dark-haired youth following.

“Welcome home, brother,” the elder said, opening the front door wide so they could enter. “I’m guessing you want your usual room?” he asked his kin, heading down the hallway, past the den, and to the impressive guest quarters in the back---one of many in the house.

“Of course,” the younger replied, stepping into the familiar suite. They set down the bags, and the older Asian turned to walk back down the hall.

“Mike Shinoda, if you even try to go back to work I will cut off your testicles!” Brad shouted out at his friend, as the half-Japanese man in the room laughed, quite used to his brother’s ways.

“I’d like to see you try,” the man yelled back.

After settling in, and changing into more comfortable clothes, they gathered back in the den. Jason attempted to call over his sibling’s black Kai, promising him pets and rubs, but the animal just sat calmly, looking at him with his dark eyes. “Mike, there’s something wrong with your dog,” he whined to his brother.

“There is nothing wrong with my dog!” the older dark-haired man scoffed, snapping the creature over to him. “Karasu’s perfect,” he rubbed the ebony fur, hugging the pet.

“Aw, Jay, don’t take it personally. You know that animal doesn’t like anyone, but Mike,” the curly-haired man chuckled.

“Why couldn’t you have trained ‘im more like Hatsu?” the youth asked as he picked up the smaller Shiba Inu, who cheerfully settled into his lap.

“I did nothing differently, it’s just who he is,” the Asian said indignantly. He looked at his watch, and stood raising his arms out wide, “so Jay, ready to return to the Phoenix?”

They stopped for dinner on the way, the younger two forcing the other half-Japanese to try and forget his work. Arriving, Mike spent only a short time with his younger brother before letting Rob catch up with his old friend. The older Asian and his curly-haired best friend went to the hallway in the back and up the stairs that few knew were there. Long ago, before it became a bar, the place was a small theatre and one small section of the old balcony was still there. The dark-haired man enjoyed standing up in it, looking out over the place and the people. He could see everything and watch over all. That was where he and Brad were when the singer they had all but forgotten about walked through the door a third time.

Chester wandered in, not sure exactly what brought him there, and looked around for something. Only when he didn't see him did he realize he was searching for Mike Shinoda again. The man wasn't at the piano or any of the tables; he wasn't hidden in the booths or sitting at the bar. He didn't seem to be anywhere, which struck the pale musician as strange because he got the impression that the Asian man was always there.

Meandering his way to the counter, the singer leaned over the bar to glance down the row of stools again. Without thinking, he nodded to the bartender, only slightly regretting it as the tough man made his way over to him. He glowered at the pale musician, wondering what brought the mewling boy back to his bar.

The thinner man swallowed, trying to drown his nerves. “Mike Shinoda?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yeah?” the bartender raised an eyebrow at him.

“Is he here?” He got a small nod in response. “Do you know where?”

The man raised his green eyes to the ceiling above the pool tables. It turned out not to just be a ceiling, but there was a sort of ledge over the far end of the bar that was unnoticeable unless specifically pointed out. From where he was, the dark hair of the man he blindly sought to find was just barely visible. The bartender had already disappeared to tend to customers by the time he turned back to inquire how to get up to the balcony.

He let his gaze roam the area, discovering a hallway to the right of the counter, in the back. The singer ambled over to the dim corridor, exploring the area with his eyes. He found restrooms, a locked door, and an interesting wooden staircase. Slowly, he tentatively made his way up the stairs, bringing him to Mike Shinoda and Brad Delson.

They were talking and laughing when Chester arrived at the balcony. It was small, but more spacious than he would have imagined from glancing at it from ground level.

“This guy came in requesting a deal, then laid out his giant list of terms like we weren’t the ones doing him a huge favor. He had his shit mixed up because the benefits on our end were hardly worth negotiating with him at all, and he still tried to pull it over on us. You should have seen Rob, he looked about ready to---”

The Asian must have heard his footsteps because he cut off his storytelling to his brunette friend to spin towards the entrance, eyes already sharp and scrutinizing. “You still haven’t learned, have you?” he growled.

Brad just looked at him incredulously. “He’s back?” the curly-haired man asked his friend as if the smaller man was not standing mere feet away. Mike’s response was to glare at the singer and fiddle with his drink.

His friend turned to the newcomer, his own near-empty glass in hand, and he smiled mischievously. “Perfect timing kid,” he teased, “get me another drink?”

Chester frowned at the glass held out to him, but he never had to come up with a retort, as the deep voice cut in, “You know Brad, why don’t you go get that drink? Catch up with Dave downstairs.” It was a suggestion, but something about the way he spoke made his words sound like commands. He nodded at his friend, when he turned to him for confirmation that he should leave.

The curly-haired man then walked away, smirking and looking down at the small musician still in the entryway. He stepped close enough to brush against his shoulder when he passed, calling over his back a “have fun” before he headed down the stairs.

The Asian man went back to the slightly bored expression he seemed to adopt every time that the thinner man had seen him. He looked at his glass, rolling the bottom on the edge of the railing, before looking up at the singer in front of him, a sneer on his face. “So Chester,” his tone was filled with mocking, making the name sound like an insult, “it appears I have overestimated you.”

“Really? How so?” the smaller man asked childishly.

“You’re back,” each consonant sound seemed to pop off his tongue with scorn. “I had begun to think you were smart enough to stay away. Wishful thinking, I suppose.” He rolled his eyes before throwing back his head to shoot down the last of the alcoholic beverage, placing the glass on the table in the corner to his side. “You don’t think it makes you brave to return, do you?” he smiled cruelly again.

Mike watched as the kid’s brows crinkled together and the corners of his mouth quirked down. For all his claims to adulthood, the musician constantly reminded him of a little boy. His mind started to wander into the past until he pulled it back when the singer asked him a question.

“Why not?” he looked stubborn.

The half-Japanese man chuckled with a shake of his head. “There exists a fine line between bravery and stupidity. Walking in here again is really not an intelligent move on your part. You have no defense, and since you’ve already gotten a taste of the place and its people, coming back is more of a suicide mission than anything courageous. Do I need to show you explicitly what happens when you get tangled up here?” He took a few threatening steps forward towards the smaller man, reaching out for a fistful of his tee shirt. With a tug, he brought him closer so that he was staring straight down into the warm brown eyes.

For a split second, Chester felt a strange sense of security wash over him when he was dragged near the dark-haired man. He could feel the taller man’s breath on his face and could smell the alcohol he had been drinking, but the closeness was like a shelter from everything else. All feelings of protection were cancelled out when he looked into the cold, dark eyes. They glared into his soul, unease and fear chilling him to the core as the grip on his shirt tightened.

He was more scared of Mike Shinoda there than the other times he had met him---which was saying something. Before when he had encountered him, he had definitely felt vulnerable to potentially harmful actions of the other; the imperilment he felt right then was above even the moment of fervent rage the Asian showed at the end of their last exchange. This time he knew that he had been pushing his buttons, and he went against his clear instruction not to come back. The small musician was precariously flitting about the line so plainly set for him by the man,---should he cross it, there was unknown hell to pay---and he knew it.

Shakily, he reached into his pocket to grip the knife he had brought as a precaution to defend himself if necessary. He clumsily took out the pocketknife under the now amused gaze of the other man.

The Asian watched the thinner man open the knife in his quivering hands. With a laugh, he loosened his hold and pushed the chest a step back. “Oh, I was wrong. You brought something for self-defense. The question is, can you use it?”

His breathing was labored, and truth be told, he was not brought much comfort by the metal blade he wielded in his hand. The singer could feel the danger that surrounded the dark man. He had seen with his own eyes larger competitors turn away from a fight with him. Chester had no confidence, but still he dared to say back, “If I have to.”

“Really now?” the taller man was sneering. With calculated steps, he moved them backwards, near the edge of the balcony where he had been before. So carefully he did so that the other man hardly noticed the motion. “You know how this...scuffle plays out, don’t you?” he asked down to him. “You can’t take me, little Bennington,” his lips curled in a snarl and with every word, they got closer again.

“How do you know what I can, and can’t take?” the musician gritted his teeth to stand his ground, his knuckles turning white from how tightly he clenched the knife handle.

“You couldn’t handle it. You’re as soft as a motherfucking newborn kitten,” Mike sneered at him. “Even with your little knife, you have no chance,” the way he said the word “knife” made it sound like the man was holding a child’s toy, not even close to a weapon. “Besides, you don’t have the guts to do anything if you had to.” He seemed to back off for a moment. Then he came back up to the smaller man’s stunned face. “In fact, I dare you to,” he took Chester’s arm, and brought it up until the tip was just barely touching his own midsection, the blade lightly brushing his stomach.

“What?” the singer tried to back away, confused and caught off guard by the move, but the darker-haired male held his elbow firmly in place, and the fist in his shirt wouldn’t allow him any space to withdraw himself.

“One push to escape. I won’t even retaliate, I promise,” the words dripped with a maniacal sweetness of temptation. By then they were so close that their noses almost touched, the Asian staring him down.

“No…” the thinner man mumbled, bewildered.

“I dare you,” his voice was deep and rough, the words slow and articulate. The musician could see the whites of his teeth and every movement of his full lips when he spoke.

Their chests rose and fell in time with heavy breathing, neither of them moving a muscle for what seemed like forever. They just held their stances, searching in each other’s eyes for something---a sign of strength, a retreat, a challenge.

“That’s what I thought,” Mike whispered eventually, breaking the silence and stillness of their figures. He released the musician who sighed in relief until the grip on his arm tightened suddenly. In a flash he was thrown around so that he was staring out at the bar below; his arm was pinned behind his back, and the weight of another body pressed into him from behind, disabling any movement.

“Look out there,” the Asian pointed out, down to the people bustling about downstairs, his voice gritty near the timorous singer’s ear. “See them?” he snarled, feeling the smaller man nod hesitantly. “You don’t fit in with them, you can’t survive. You don’t belong here,” he spat.

Body heat radiated from the men, mixing and warming them past the boundary of comfort. Chester could hear and feel every breath the other man took with his lips still nearly touching his ear, whiskers from his beard tickled his neck.

“A tip," he growled, "don’t let your own knife become a threat against yourself,” the pocketknife suddenly just below the musician’s ribcage.

The singer’s breath hitched in shock, never having noticed the transfer of hands. Last he remembered, he was the one holding the weapon.

“Maybe now you’ll remember that this is no place for you next time you feel like joining us, _kitten_.” With a flick of his wrist, the blade slashed through the paler man’s shirt, deliberately just grazing the skin.

The thinner man hissed at the small cut, looking down at the tiny drops of blood dotting the tear in his tee shirt as Mike released him. He was finally able to take a step back as the Asian walked to the other side of the balcony, putting space between them. In one hand he tossed the knife up, watching it flip and turn before landing back in his palm perfectly.

Chester was still feeling at his side when the taller man said, “c’mon. Rob will take you home. Again.” He picked up his glass from before and smoothly closed the knife, pointing towards the stairs. The singer walked out with a hand on the broken flesh, his steps slow and his head down. He felt like a child being escorted across a busy street by a grown up the way the half-Japanese man came behind him. He was pushed firmly out the hallway and towards three men sitting at the bar. He could make out the faces of the two friends he had met previously, but he did not seem to have ever seen the third, hidden from view by the curly-haired man. The only thing he could see was hair as dark as Mike’s falling forward as he leaned over the counter.

“Rob,” the Asian interrupted. He said, “Please?” nodding towards the musician when his friends turned to look.

“Again?” the tall brunette asked in disbelief.

“Convince him not to come back, and you won’t have to deal with it anymore,” the dark-haired man shrugged.

Rob looked down to where the singer held his side. “Ah Shinoda, what did you do to the boy?”

“Kid tried a knife on me. It’s just a simple flesh wound. A warning,” he brushed it off, waiting for his friend to stand so he could take his place on the stool. “See you later tonight?” were his final words, already signaling for the bartender.

“Yeah,” the taller man replied. “Let’s go,” he sighed and put his hand on the musician’s shoulder to lead him out.

“Oh, and kitten?” Mike called over his shoulder, tossing the pocketknife back in their direction. “I wouldn’t pull that on anyone else if I were you,” he smirked.

The singer scrambled to catch it, still watching the mysterious man with millions of questions as Rob led him away.


	8. So many things were left unsaid

Chester hardly protested the taller brunette directed to take him home. He just trudged out of the bar and into the streets, eyes cast to the pocketknife he held in his hand. They were quiet on the walk to the parking lot, both involved in their own heads.

Rob stopped when they got to his car. He stood by his door, and looked over the top of the Camaro at the singer. His gaze was intense, although there was a softness to his eyes that the musician had not felt from the other men. “Why did you come back, Chester?” It was nice to hear his name devoid of ridicule. He sounded tired and he sounded dubious, but overall he sounded sincere.

It seemed foreign after all the times he was berated by the others in the short period he had been around them. The smaller man shrugged, his words coming out barely above a whisper when he responded, “I don’t know.” He really wasn’t entirely sure what brought him back, but he knew he was drawn to the place and to Mike Shinoda even though it only got him dejected and hurt.

The taller of them unlocked the doors then, and the two ducked inside the vehicle. They both buckled their seatbelts, but Rob just sat for a moment, keys in hand, and stared out the window before looking over at the musician. “He’s captivating, isn’t he?” again, his voice was soft.

Chester nodded, meeting the other man’s eyes. The taller male seemed exhausted as he fell back with a sigh, still not starting the engine. “I told you that you shouldn’t get involved with him, and hoped you’d listen. I had no idea that he would continue helping you, and I’m not surprised you came back a second time,” he stopped a moment. The singer mulled over in his mind the confirmation that he had been given over the fact the Asian had indeed helped him. “You shouldn’t have gone to him tonight---tonight or any other night,” he started again, looking down as he fiddled with his keys. “It’s dangerous here, and I’ve seen more than a few try to stay because they were entranced by Mike Shinoda. None of them lasted. None of them have been able to withstand everything that comes with the association even if he does accept them. You’re not the first one to want in, but you are the most misinformed and ill-equipped of them---not to mention your atrocious judgement. You’re like a curious kid sticking his nose where he should never go.”

The singer stared at him, a little surprised that he had said so much, not sure whether or not to be offended by the words. “How do you know what’s going to happen?” he asked quietly.

“I _don’t know_ ,” the younger man shrugged his shoulders. “I wouldn’t bet on you though. You can’t fight, you don’t understand the area and the works. You’re not cut out for this, and you can’t learn. It’s not that easy.” Rob finally turned the key in the ignition when he finished talking. He turned on his headlights and pulled out of the parking lot.

The atmosphere surrounding them was different from the first time they were in that situation. The taller brunette was thoughtful and serious. He didn’t ignore the man in the passenger seat, but he seemed to be too lost in his own mind to pay attention to the pale musician. He just drove in silence until Chester spoke up.

“Why do you follow him?”

“Huh? Who? Mike?” the younger started from his thoughts. The singer nodded and the tall male sighed. “Reasons you may never know,” he sounded drained and almost resigned in a way, but it was the most anyone had spoken to the smaller man since he first walked into the bar.

“He doesn’t seem very nice at all, and he barks orders like he’s royalty; yet, I’ve seen you drop everything to do what he says. I mean, don’t you have your own things? Why do you listen to him?”

“What you don’t understand is this is a lifestyle. This is _my life_. I don’t follow him out of fear or some sick ambition if that’s what you think. I believe in him,” Rob said simply, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve known him for a long time. He’s one of my oldest and best friends,” he started to smile, real and earnestly before going solemn again. “I owe him everything in the world.”

“So you do it out of some sort of unpaid debt?” the thinner male tried to wrap his head around the words.

The taller man shook his head with a slight chuckle. “No, nothing like that.” He pulled up to the curb outside Chester’s apartment building. He stopped the car, turning it off and staring straight ahead, the stolidity back in his expression. When the musician moved to get out, he put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Bennington, I don’t think you should come back, but I can also see that you’ve been caught in the mystery and intrigue of our existence,” he paused, running his hand over the steering wheel before turning to look the smaller man in straight in the eye. “Look, he doesn’t trust easily and he rarely approves of anyone enough to allow them in at all. You don’t fit in, and he is never going to accept someone he sees as a defenseless child. You might want to toughen up before you even think of trying to talk to him. And he’s right,” he pointed to the knife still in the other’s hands, “don’t pull a knife on someone if you can’t use it to your advantage,” he added, a teasing glint in his eye.

The singer chuckled sheepishly and tried to explain, “I thought that maybe I might need it in case I ran into trouble or something that you all keep talking about. I just grabbed it before I left,” he mumbled.

Turning serious again, the other man said, “I like you, Chester. I don’t think you’re smart or capable of surviving this life, but something about you is _good_.”

The singer was unsure what to do with the compliment, and a little surprised at the amount of respect he felt for Rob. He was amazed to note the hints of _advice_ rather than _threats_ in the other man’s words to him. So far everyone had been telling him to keep away and not to return, but this time it sounded suspiciously like helpful suggestions. For the first time in a long time, his lips formed a true smile on his face. “Thanks for the ride,” he said to the taller male. He got out of the car, and shut the door soundly. Despite the earlier events of the night, he felt good. After walking up to the door of the building, he turned to wave at the younger man. This time, the other was still there to raise a hand of his own in farewell.

Chester made his way up to his apartment almost happily after the exchange he had had with the taller brunette. He was delighted with how much the other had actually spoken, and less cryptically than the last time. The singer was hardly dreading seeing his wife once he entered, his thoughts caught up in the fantasy of the Phoenix.

She was sitting on the couch, her feet up on the coffee table, with a can of beer in her hand. The woman glanced up at him when he entered before moving her eyes back to the television illuminating the dim room. The musician looked up to the ceiling to find that one of the lightbulbs was out, leaving their living room only half lit.

“Hi Sam,” he greeted the woman almost cheerfully. She looked at him as if he had antlers sprouting from his head, having grown accustomed to the silence between them and the fact that his attention had been somewhere else in the last days.

“Chester,” she addressed him slowly, curious as to why he seemed to be so spirited. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. I was just out for a little while. What have you been doing?” he said conversationally.

“Just came home and watched some TV,” she answered, gesturing towards the screen.

“Come to bed soon?" he asked, heading towards their bedroom.

“Yeah,” Sam said, giving her husband a smile as he went into the other room. She had no idea why, but he seemed more like the man she had married years before than he had in a long time. Hope that she could get something out of him again overshadowed the suspicion she felt of his reasons. The woman clicked off the television and headed into the kitchen to drop her empty beer in the recycling under the sink. Then, with only slight hesitation she walked into the bedroom the two shared. She came upon her husband exiting their bathroom and pulling off his jeans, slipping into their bed in just his tee shirt and boxers. After using the bathroom herself, the woman slid into her own pajamas for the night and got under the covers next to the musician.

It had been days since he last slept in their bed with her. She had started to think that he was going to stay out on the couch forever in his bizarre sort of trance. It had been days since they had even spoken, and now for whatever reason he was acting like things were normal between them. She wanted it. She wanted them to go back to how it was before they moved, before he stopped caring about her, before he left her alone every night. There was hope that now maybe he would be there for her as they lay in bed together for the first time in what felt like forever. He pulled her close, and she smiled to herself as her eyes shut for the night.

What she didn’t know was that the man’s new attitude had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with these new men that had come into his life---or rather, that he had found.

Rob's words stuck with him, at least some of them did. Maybe he was just a _child_ to them, and maybe they looked down on him from fifty feet up, but he was going to find a way in. It didn't matter how long it took, Chester was determined to belong there. He knew he'd have to change, but it didn't matter. There was nothing for him how he was already living.

Sam would have been sorry to find out her husband hardly noticed the way he hugged her to his body as he was already too far gone in his dream. He could see it so clearly, standing beside Mike Shinoda.

In his head there was a glorious image of himself with the tall, dark Asian. Brad was there, and so was Rob, and they were all together. No one was against him, no one was trying to scare him off or get rid of him. They all accepted him---he was one of them.

At no time did he think of anything else that it could mean. He paid no heed to all the other things that the man had said, warning him of the danger and hazards it entailed. Never did he take seriously how difficult it might be not only to get on the inside, but what it would be like there. Nor did it occur to him that if the rumors were true it would mean being jumped into a gang immersed in violence, not to mention dealing drugs and whatever other contraband.

No, he thought of none of that, lost in his imagined paradise.

As he fell asleep, wife in arms, his mind raced. He planned and thought out his next moves. He strategized how he was to go about his new goal. It was rapidly becoming an obsession: his desire to be accepted into the gang of men at the bar, his infatuation with their apparent leader.

 

Rob took his time driving away from Chester's building until he got a text from Brad telling him that they were en route to the house. He arrived at the same time they did, pulling up beside the black sedan as the other three stepped out. The tall brunette shared a nod with the older Asian, confirming that all went well.

Silently they all traipsed into the house, splitting in different directions once they entered the warm indoors. Jason rejoined with the other younger man, catching up again and heading into the den. The curly-haired man went straight for the kitchen, and the elder brother lingered in the hallway, feeding and greeting his animals with affection he showed to little others. Eventually all four ended up in the den, Mike and Brad watching the younger two try to kill each other in the video game world.

When Rob stood to get something from the kitchen, the older half-Japanese man followed without a word. He watched his friend get a glass of water, silently looking at him across the room. "Thank you," he finally said, his eyes dark and serious.

The brunette didn't need an explanation to know that he was talking about the boy again; he just nodded, "of course." There was a pause before he gathered the words to ask. "Why him? Why is he special? Why are you treating him differently from the other curious punks who come to us? Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. You are cruel to his face, then turn around and ensure that he is safe. Why?"

He watched the Asian as he leaned his elbows on the island in the middle of the room. In his hands, he could see the switchblade being turned around and around with his fingers. The taller man knew it well, having seen it held by his friend for many years. They were both staring at it when the other finally uttered a response. "Because," he sighed. "He drives me crazy, you know. His idiocy and ignorance make my skin crawl, but I can't do anything to him," he admitted, defeated. "He's so pure and innocent. He hasn't been tainted by this world." Mike looked up, and his younger friend could see a wealth of feelings in the dark chocolate pools on his face. There was a buried sorrow, old pain, anger that still burned with desire for revenge, and deeply shrouded fear.

The tall brunette nodded, understanding the feeling, but still unclear as ever on what was really going through the other man's head. Nevertheless, he dropped the subject, not wanting to upset his old friend as it apparently did. He patted him on the back as he passed, leaving the room for the den with the other guys.

The Asian stood at the counter, gazing into the granite top, but seeing something other than the polished, shiny rock. He unthinkingly pulled out his pack of cigarettes, lighting one to soothe his mind as it took him back in time. When Chester had stood there boldly against him, fiddling with his knife as if it would protect him, the dark-haired man saw something else. He saw a boy, youth still rounding his cheeks, although over a decade in age. The child was scared, but he was determined, standing up for himself against a force by which he was sure to be annihilated.

This new person coming to the bar was different from most, yet so akin to the little boy it was almost like the past taking another chance. Mike ran his thumb over the knife in his hand, feeling the etched letters with the pad of his finger. He took a long drag on the cigarette, glancing down to meet the mahogany eyes of the black dog who had followed him in from the other room. His presence brought the man comfort; he pocketed the weapon and instead reached down to stroke the obsidian fur. Kneeling, he ran his fingers through it and leaned his face into the beloved pet. There, he allowed himself to feel the ache of fatigue, the lasting disconcertment of long ago, and the fearful confusion catching up to him at every turn. He let his senses be taken over by the animal's breathing, feeling his smaller chest expand and fall. The man matched his own oxygen intake to the beats of the creature, his face still buried in the ebony fur. The dog stood patiently by his master, wanting nothing but the best for the one who had raised and cared for him all his life. When the half-Japanese man stood again, his strength returned, he shook the emotions off once more.

The Asian went to the fridge and pulled two beers, immediately opening one himself, and bringing the other to his friend. He was normal when he returned to the other men, even smiling and chuckling with them.

He and Brad sat drinking their beer and cracking up as the younger Shinoda cursed at an explosion on the screen, Rob cackling on his other side.

It was almost like nothing had changed since they were all in high school. They were a little older, and had a little more perspective on the grand scheme of life; they had careers and paths they walked down with more certainty than the faint dusty trails they blindly chose as panicked teenagers; their lives were more secure. However, they still played games with each other, laughing and having fun in the most untarnished ways; they still joked and teased like a close-knit family; it still felt like home together. Nothing could take away the bonds that held them to one another and the willingness they had to sacrifice everything---including their lives---for the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite sure how many people here are interested in this story, and I might stop updating here. It is also on Wattpad for anyone who would like to read it there.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think.


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